


It Takes A Bit More (Than You)

by Kiros18



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Archie - Freeform, Armie is angry with the world, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Timmy is a brainy brat, for good reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 146,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiros18/pseuds/Kiros18
Summary: In some ways, Armie figures he has it all. At least, if you don’t look too closely.In a lot of ways, Armie feels like he has nothing. But he doesn’t let anyone close enough to see that.Or, the one where Armie makes a rather questionable pass at a very beautiful and alluring boy, but ends up regretting ever laying eyes on the kid for the rest of the school year (possibly the rest of his life.)
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 485
Kudos: 366





	1. Chicks

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's me again and I've brought a new WIP (again). 
> 
> This is something I've spent a significant amount of time thinking about, planning and eventually, writing.  
> So, to those of you who read I'd Give You All The Years of My Life and I'd Rather Be With You - I haven't forgotten about them, I've just had my thoughts elsewhere and I'm actually pretty excited about this project. 
> 
> So, here you have it- the first chapter of a high school AU that no one really asked for but I couldn't keep myself from writing.  
> Thank you for bearing with me. Enjoy <3

Armie feels his chest vibrating. It starts in his feet, spreads up through his whole body, manifesting in his chest before it tries to escape through his arms, his fingertips.

For a second, it stops. His body feels empty, before it comes back full force, hitting him like a heavy wave. A wave of energy and sound, the frequency so low he feels it more than hears it. It feels as if his blood is pumping to the beat of the bass.

The lights around him flashes in his eyes, painting his face in red, blue, pink, yellow and green strobes.

It sends his nervous system into overdrive, adrenalin flowing through his veins, mixing with the beers he downed half an hour ago. They’ve left a buzzing feeling that works as a pleasant supplement to the bass booming throughout the club.

“I’m heading to the bar, want me to get you anything?” It’s Nick. He’s pressing up besides Armie, his mouth so close to his ear, he can hear him over the music. Close enough for Armie to feel his solid chest, smell the sweat and beer on him. The cigarette they shared outside the bar.

“Beer!” Armie yells back. Claps Nick on the back, before making his way to the bathrooms.

Pulling the stall shut behind him, Armie unzips his pants, pulls out his dick. Leans his head back and sighs at the relief . The music from the club muffles when the door to the bathroom swings shut, just to swing open again, making the music louder. There are people outside the stall, both women and men.

It sounds like someone is having a blast next door, high pitched screams and muffled grunts emitting from the stall.

The walls are covered in ink. Someone named Susan is apparently a slut. To the left is a drawing of an erect dick. _Poor Susan,_ Armie thinks. Figures that if the person who drew the dick was the same person writing her name, she never stood a chance.

_Fucking kids._

He’s momentarily pulled out of his thoughts when someone yanks down the doorhandle. Heart in his throat, Armie yells “occupied!” before going back to his business, finishing up.

His mind flashes back to earlier this night.

_Where do you think you’re going?!_

Shaking his head, Armie tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind. Wills his shoulders to sink back down and shakes his dick, stuffing it back inside his pants. It reeks of piss and booze in here. He needs a god damned drink.

* * *

It’s the last night before school starts up again. Armie will be starting his senior year of high school tomorrow and while he really doesn’t look forward to one more year of bullshit, he’s also eager to just get it over with. Then, he’ll go to college, start fresh, get some distance from this place.

It was Nick’s idea to go out tonight. At least, he thinks so. It might’ve been Ashton or Tyler, too but Armie knows that way more often than not, they’ll have Nick suggest these kinds of things to Armie. He’s way more inclined to agree to Nick’s ideas than theirs. It’s not like it’s got anything to do with the fact that Nick just needs to look at him with those big browns, maybe put his hand on Armie’s shoulder if the situation really calls for it. And no, don’t get the wrong idea. Armie doesn’t have the hots for his best friend. At all. He isn’t gay. At all. He only likes tits and pussy. He’s never felt anything remotely non-platonic to any guy, _ever._ At least, that’s what he tells himself every night. Every second of the day. He is the epitome of straight. 

But anyway, here they are. Celebrating the last night of vacation before their last year of high school. Cramped inside a booth facing the dancefloor, Armie sits between Nick and Ashton.

He is pleasantly buzzed, his head swimming a little. He’s almost forgotten how little he actually wanted to be here in the first place. Almost forgotten how he dreads going home. How awful he feels about going back to school tomorrow.

It’s not that he feels like he doesn’t fit in. It’s about the opposite actually. He’s the captain of the football team. The leader of the popular people. He’s the white rich kid with girls hanging off his arms, guys patting his back in hallways.

In some ways, Armie figures he has it all. At least, if you don’t look too closely.

In a lot of ways, Armie feels like he has nothing. But he doesn’t let anyone close enough to see that.

“See that chick over there?” Ashton yells, patting Armie’s arm and pointing towards the dancefloor.

Armie sees a lot of _chicks_ and like, the problem with Ashton is that he’s a cute a guy. He’s a cute guy who would probably stand much better of a chance, if he didn’t insist on calling every female a _chick._ Like, Armie’s been in this field his whole life, knows that girls prefer not to be categorized with farm animals. And if they for some reason do, it’s probably not worth it.

Anyway, Armie just nods his head. Takes a swig of his beer while scanning the crowd.

“You should totally invite her and her hen-party over, they look like a blast,” Ashton says, nudging Armie in the side while winking at him. Armie almost smacks his forehead with his hand. _Hen-party?_ And alright, this is why Ashton always ends up as the third wheel. Always ends up buying girls drinks just to watch them follow another guy to the dancefloor. Always needs to bum cigarettes from the other guys at the end of the night, because he’s given all of his own away to _chicks_ outside the bar. He has zero game.

If Armie was able to show sympathy for other people, then he would defiantly give Ashton a hug. Poor guy.

Tyler snorts. Says, “you’re about to be a senior, dude. It’s about fucking time that you start picking up your own girls.”

Armie laughs at the face Ashton pulls. Downs the rest of his beer, before motioning for Nick to get up. “I’m not gonna get you any ladies, but I can get you another beer,” Armie says, scooting out of the booth.

Maybe, he should go find some action himself, he thinks. He is straight, after all. Isn’t that what straight guys do? Pick up girls on dancefloors, bangs them in the bathroom stalls. Write nasty shit about them on the walls if they don’t put out? Armie wouldn’t know. He’s never had his dick inside a girl before. Not that anyone needs to know that. Nick might be suspicious about it, but he hasn’t called Armie out on it. As far as he is concerned though, Ashton and Tyler still think that he fucks a new girl every weekend. Good.

For what is essentially a school night, the club is surprisingly crowded. Armie has to walk sideways half the way to the bar, pushing through sweating bodies. He’s given up on apologizing, the music way too loud, the thumbing bass drowning him out. Pushing his way through the crowd, he makes his way to the front of the bar. Leans his elbows on the counter while signaling for the blonde bartender at the other end. He catches her eye and she smile at him, holding up two fingers.

When someone pushes up beside him, he looks to his left.

At best, Armie would describe him as a kid. He’s tall though, not as tall as Armie but tall enough to tower over most of the people around them. There are long thin arms, wild curls all over the place.

“Scuse me,” the kid yells. Pushes up on the counter, leaning over it with his whole upper body. Whistles at the male bartender who walks up to him. For a second, Armie wants to call him out for being rude. But then, the busty blonde bartender appears in front of him, pulling his attention away. He orders his beers, leaves the bar. Tells himself that the interested tingle in his pants arose because of the cleavage that was just pushed in his face. Not because of gangly limbs and dark curls.

Back at the table, the guys have actually had their luck. Three girls are crowding the space, leaving the edge of the booth to Armie. A tall, skinny dark-haired girl takes a seat in his lap the minute he sits down. She smells of suffocatingly sweet perfume. At least she’s warm, Armie thinks to himself. Puts a hand around her waist, the other on her thigh.

“My name’s Elizabeth,” she says. Her lips so close to his ear he fears he might find lip gloss in his auditory canal later.

“Armie,” he says. He knows he comes off as uninterested, and to some people the curd answer might’ve been perceived as down-right rude, but Elizabeth doesn’t seem to care. Just puts her arm around his shoulder, starts playing with the hair in the nape of his neck.

To be perfectly honest, Armie just wanted to hang out with the guys. Didn’t feel like being the number one prize in the middle of this _hen-party_ as Ashton would’ve called it. But Armie isn’t stupid, he knows that straight guys would never turn girls like Elizabeth down.

Seeing as he is straight himself, he pulls her closer. Puts his hands on her ass when she leans down and kisses him. It’s sticky from lip gloss and everything smells too sweet. It doesn’t get him going. His dick remains flaccid the whole time, even when she starts grinding not-so-subtle on his crotch.

He tells himself it’s the beer. That it’s because of the fact that they’re in public. He defiantly doesn’t delve on the fact that he only ever does these things in public where people can see how straight he is. He doesn’t let himself think about how, in private, he’s never done any of this.

Just closes his eyes, keeps his hands below her waist.

When she wraps her long arms around his neck, pictures of wild dark hair and gangly limbs flash before his eyes. His dick twitches.

Pulling back, he excuses himself to the bathroom. Declines Elisabeth’s offer to join him.

Inside the stall, he wills his dick to calm down. Watches himself in the mirror. His eyes are swimming, his pupils dilated, hair sticking up at random places.

When he makes his way back to the booth, his drink is gone. _Isn’t that just typical?_

And yeah, the girls are still there, probably just looting around for free drinks, smokes and dick. Well, Armie thinks to himself. This isn’t a fucking charity gift shop.

For the next twenty minutes, he stares at the dancefloor, resolutely ignoring Elizabeth’s attempts at getting his attention.

It’s not that difficult. The kid from the bar is out there. Now that Armie is in a safe distance, he allows himself to take him in. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that disappears into black, red and white pinstriped pants. Armie can’t see his shoes on the dark dancefloor, but he can see that the guy is wearing a ridiculous number of necklaces and bracelets. If his dick wasn’t so hard, Armie would roll his eyes and snort.

The kid is bouncing around, his curls falling in his face, flopping around. It should look ridiculous, what with him being so tall and lanky, but every move he makes has Armie completely enticed. He’s graceful in a way Armie hasn’t seen any girl be before, so sensual and at the same time, buzzing with an energy that reaches Armie, almost luring him out on the dancefloor. _It’s just because he looks like a girl,_ Armie tells himself. Reaches for his beer and curses when he finds it empty.

“We’re going outside for a smoke,” Nick says, patting Armie on the shoulder. “Wanna join?”

Armie shakes his head.

“I’m good,” he says. Tells himself he doesn’t feel like pushing through the crowds or standing outside in the cold night. Looks back at the dancefloor when the guys have left.

The kid is still moving around, rolling his shoulders and sliding across the floor. At one point, Armie is convinced that the kid looks right at him. Is convinced that they make eye contact, that it’s an invitation. To what, he doesn’t know.

He tells himself that he shouldn’t. That this isn’t what straight guys do. What he does. That he should just go outside and find Elizabeth. Get them both pissed and get it over with. For a fleeting second, he thinks about how embarrassing it is to start his senior year, lying to everyone about having lost his virginity ages ago, when in fact, he hasn’t even received a single slobby blowjob. It’s not like he is lying though, not really. He’s never said anything about fucking girls. People just always assumed, and he never corrected them.

That kid though, has been driving Armie insane half the night. And the guys wouldn’t know. No one would know. It’s not even like he’s ever seen the kid before, he’s probably not even from around here.

Pulling in a deep breath that almost reaches his toes, Armie gets up.

Pushes his way through people, hands sweaty, heart in his throat. He’s never done this before. The girls mostly come to him. And it’s probably different with guys. _He looks so much like a girl, though._

When he stands behind the kid, his brain just short-circuits. At least, that what he’ll tell himself later, because this, this isn’t how he usually does these things. Again, he’s got more game than Ashton. But not right now, apparently. Not when he presses up close behind the guy, places his hands on the pert little ass that’s been driving him up the fucking wall all night.

It almost feels as if this ass and Armie’s hands are made for each other. It fits perfectly in his big palms, and for a second he can almost imagine how it would feel to push his aching crotch up against the pert little peach, grind his cock between the cheeks. _Almost._

He’s about to lean down, whisper something into the ear that must be somewhere behind all those curls, when his plan backfires.

The kid startles. Turns around and smacks Armie right in the face. “What the fuck, get off me you fucking pig!” It happens so fast, Armie almost gets a whiplash.

_Alright,_ he thinks to himself. _He probably didn’t look at me, then._

His own reaction though, is nothing to be proud of either. “Chill dude, I thought you were a chick.”

Armie says, holding his hands up defensively in front of his chest.

As he turns around and walks away, he can almost feel the holes burning in the back of his head. It’s got nothing on the shame spreading like wildfire through his body though.

First of all, _chick?_ It’s official then, Ashton has more game than Armie has by now. If girls hate that name, he can’t imagine how guys would take it.

Second of all, this will be his death. That was fucking stupid and embarrassing.

Third of all, Nick is standing by the booth when he makes his way back. Just starring at Armie, his mouth agape. _Just what he fucking needed. Perfect!_

Armie doesn’t say anything. Just grabs his jacket, murmurs “I’ve got a headache, see you tomorrow.”

Armie goes home. Smokes four cigarettes in the thirty minutes it takes him. Curses himself from here on to hell. For a split second, he can almost relate to the assholes inking up the bathroom stalls. He is certain that there must be a hole in the dancefloor somewhere, taking the shape of his pride. However, that must look. Small and insignificant, most likely.

At home, he sits in his windowsill and smokes four more cigarettes. Pictures of the kid’s body flashing over and over before his eyes, always ending up with that beautiful face painted in disgust and anger. Armie rubs his cheek, can almost still feel the sting. He knows he deserved that, but at the same time, he fucking hates the kid. Stupid, snoppy hippie-kid with his stupid, pale body, stupid long hair that could confuse any guy, make any guy question their own sexuality, no matter how straight. This is what he tells himself when he cums all over his fist. Tells himself that the only reason why the kid makes him spurt all the way up to his chin, is because he’s a senior who hasn’t gotten laid yet.

When he throws up five minutes later, he tells himself that it’s the beer. The excessive amount of nicotine he just inhaled. Doesn’t admit to himself that it’s the self-loath, guilt and regret that makes him sick.

He goes to bed. The dread of what the rest of the year might entail making his head pound.


	2. Hell in the shape of an angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie is this freaking close to banging his face against the wall. Of all the guys he decided to act like a homosexual with, it has to be one of those prissy types who will call you an offender if you as much as breath the wrong way around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is me throwing all plans of an update schedule right out the window before we even got started.  
> Anyway, thank you all so much for your amazing comments and kudos! It never fails to make my day <3
> 
> Trigger warning: mention of assault/domestic violence

On Monday, Armie drags his hungover ass out of his car. The sun is too bright for his eyes, the rays feeling like pin-needles going through his eyeballs, into his brain. The bang that reverberates through his skull when he slams the car door shut leaves a dull thumbing behind his eyebrows.

He is this damn close to skipping school and it’s only the first day back.

_Fucking hell._

One thing that doesn’t help his inflamed mood, is the way his dad had looked at him during breakfast. The way he had stared at Armie over the top of his newspaper when his mother had commented on him being home late last night. Armie had just kept his mouth shut. He knew his father well enough by now to know that sometimes, the consequences of not answering wouldn’t be as bad as the consequences of risking talking back. It had made his father stand from the table, throw the folded newspaper on the table hard enough to make the china rattle. Then, he had thrown Armie a dirty glance, said “such a waste,” and left the dining room.

Armie had been fuming while finishing his breakfast, trying not to snap at his mother. His mother, who would choose Jesus over him and his brother any day. His mother, who never stood up for them, just watched, turned the other cheek, because that’s what God had told her to do when life gives you lemons. Something like that. Armie doesn’t give a flying fuck. It had never saved him when shit got real.

Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, Armie sighs. Adjust his sunglasses and looks across the parking lot. It is packed full of people, half of them probably still inexperienced and gullible enough to be excited about the impending school year. The other half looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Armie is one of those. He had spent four weeks of his vacation on the Caymans at his family’s summer house. He would forever prefer the endless expanses of sand, the clear blue water and quiet nooks on the beach where he could read, tan and be alone without disturbance, over this institutionalized hell hole.

It’s not that he is opposing to getting an education. He doesn’t underestimate the power of knowledge, and he is forever grateful that he is fortunate enough to actually go to school. To be from a family where he could just choose (no, his parents could choose) which school he wanted to attend.

That doesn’t mean that he likes the concept of high school though. To him, it represents his father’s power. Something that sneaks into every part of Armie’s life. Something that controls his thoughts, choices, behavior, opportunities. His future. It represents expectations, rules. A lot of fucking pressure and, well, loneliness.

Walking towards him is Nick, who defiantly doesn’t look like someone who painted the town red last night. Sometimes, Armie will secretly wonder whether he is physically attracted to him or he’s just objectively good looking. If everyone notices how nice his chest feels when he walks past them. If he is the only one feeling slightly vulnerable when on the receiving end of his broad smiles. Shaking his head, Armie locks his car. His brain is clearly too tired to think straight. Hah.

“You look like absolute shit,” Nick says, clapping Armie on the shoulder.

“Just thinking the same thing about you, asshole,” Armie says. Making his way towards the big brick building, Armie smooths his features into the usual _get-out-of-my-way_ expression. It has proven extremely useful at multiple occasions when he’s at school. People will look at him as if Moses just touched down in front them, parting their ways, starring at him in awe. Armie is aware of these things, knows that one has to be careful in his position. These things tend to get to people’s heads.

They leave him alone though, and that is the sole purpose.

The guys will know not to fuck with him, and the girls will know that he is the one who decides which one of them gets to be fucked with. God, he is so good at being an asshole. If they handed out awards for “douche bag of the year,” he would defiantly win. Oh, that’s right, they do. He’ll just have to wait around until prom.

“Your headache gone?” Nick asks as he shoulders his way past people blocking the doorway.

Armie is momentarily confused. Headache? Oh. _Oh._

“Still going strong,” Armie says. For good measure, he keeps his sunglasses on even though they’ve made their way inside. Not in the mood for eye contact. Not in the mood for the brightness of these dreaded hallways.

“Man, you missed out on the best part of the night. Right after you left, Ashton asks one those girls if they want to come see his ant-collection. He is such a fucking idiot man; can you believe it?” Nick says, his voice booming around the walls.

Armie snorts. Asks, “did it work?”

“Shit, this is the best part! It did, she totally went home with him. Looked completely shit-faced though, don’t think he got anything out of it.”

Making his way to his locker, Armie hums and laughs as Nick continues narrating the sad tales of Ashtons sex life.

“Hey, you got math now, right?” Nick asks, smacking his fist against his locker when it won’t open.

“Uh—yeah,” Armie says, scanning his schedule. Fucking math. On a Monday morning. Someone just shoot him already, please and thank you.

“Good news then, you’re pairing up with me this year,” Nick says, pushes his bag into the locker, then slams it shut. His smile is taking up about 90% of his face and it’s just about the only kind of brightness Armie can handle today. 

Entering the classroom, Armie sighs again, for the twentieth time this day. _Alright, this morning._

It’s Mr. Miller who teaches math and he looks like the perfect stereotype of a stuffy professor. Sometimes, Armie wonders if they pulled him out the back of the tallest shelve, dusted him off and placed him in front of a blackboard. Looks like he hasn’t seen daylight since the 60’s. Sounds like he doesn’t know anything about motivational learning.

Taking a seat, Armie stares out the window. Crosses his arms in front of him, pulls up his best resting bitch face and waits until everyone settles down, the room going as close to quiet as possible with a bunch of teenagers just back from summer vacation.

“Morning everyone, welcome back,” Mr. Miller starts. Turning his attention on the front of the class, Armie looks straight ahead. _Holy-_ Swallowing thickly, his pulse jumps. Suddenly he wishes that he’d pulled up the hood on his hoodie, kept his sunglasses on.

“You’ve got a new friend this year--” Armie almost rolls his eyes at this, Jesus Christ, “- this is--”

Mr. Miller cuts himself off, looks at the kid as if unsure of who he is. And well, Armie wishes that he was too.

“Timothée Chalamet, but please, call me Timmy,” the kid says. _Timothée._ Of course. Someone who moves like sex should be named something that sounds like sex too- right? Armie groans internally. He did so not sign up for this.

“Right, Timothy. He just moved here from New York and will be finishing high school this year, just like you,” Mr. Miller says. Armie can’t for the sake of his life figure out why this fossil insists on addressing a bunch of teenagers as if they were snotty preschoolers. It won’t help his case at all.

And then, the relic just has to go and open his mouth again. “Armie, you’ll make sure that Mr. Tjalamé settles in for the remainder of this week,” _what now?_ holy fucking hell. Armie almost considers if God and reincarnation is actually a real thing for a second. He must’ve been up to some bad shit before entering this life. What else could explain this death sentence he just received? First of all, Armie Hammer does not show newbies around. Second of all, this is the guy he fucking groped last night. The guy who high fived his face just hours ago because he acted like a sleaze ball, a fucking queer with no game. All things Armie could just not be associated with at school. _Fuck._

“Mr. Deli-Santi, could you take a seat in the back of the glass, let Mr. Tjalamé sit with Mr. Hammer this week.” Alright, somebody make this guy shut. up. Weren’t they supposed to talk math?

Stuffing his books and papers together in a pile, Nick gathers his things, scoots out his chair, mouths _good luck,_ and leaves Armie to drown in his own angst-sweat. He’s almost positive that Timothée will be able to smell his fear and shame. 

_Alright._ Armie thinks. _Pull yourself together. You like pussy and tits. Just give him the cold shoulder, act as if he’s no one. If he mentions anything, just say that you’ve never seen him, that he must’ve been too drunk if he thinks he’s seen you before._

Puffing out his chest, Armie tries to casually slump back in his chair. Prays that he looks absolute uninterested and bored out of his mind as Timothée plops down beside him. Armie doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at him. Just stares straight ahead, tries to look unaware of the presence beside him while fiddling with his pencil on the table. Tries to give the vibe of _I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you-or-your-New York-ass._

Timothée doesn’t say anything either. Sometimes, Armie can feel him starring though. It makes Armie ignore him even harder.

When math has finally come to an end (he would’ve fallen asleep for real if it weren’t for the constant passive-aggressive vibes coming from his left,) Armie stands up and gathers his things. Cocks his head towards the door when he catches Nicks attention. He really needs a cigarette.

He doesn’t make it far though, is only halfway through the classroom when Timothée yells after him. And yeah, Armie recognizes the sound of the kid yelling way too well already.

“Hey, wait up!” Armie sighs. A tired, exasperated, fuck-off kinda sigh. Turns around, says, “what?”

Timothée is pushing his books into his bag as he catches up to Armie. His curls are in his eyes, and he doesn’t do much to get them out of his way. Armie should stop starring.

“You have to show me around, remember?” Timothée asks.

 _Hm, yeah, I remember,_ Armie thinks. _Un-fucking-fortunately._

Armie just turns around, motions for Timothée to follow. _Better get it over with. He is defiantly not playing tutor for a whole week._

He doesn’t make it further than the hallway though. When they walk past a corner with a small nook in the wall, he feels a hand that shouldn’t be so strong considering the delicate bone structure of that shoves him into the corner.

“What the fuck man?” Armie blurts.

“You.” Timothée says. Squints his eyes and points an accusing finger at Armie, almost poking him in the middle of the chest.

 _Well fuck_. Defiantly seems like the kid weren’t drunk enough to forget about Armie. _Shit. Crab. Tits._

“Me?” Armie asks, looking around confused, trying to feign innocence. Unfortunately, it seems like Timothée can smell his bullshit far too quick.

“You’re the imbecil who grabbed my ass last night, without consent,” Timmy says.

_Oh my God, he’s one of those people._ Armie thinks.

He is this freaking close to banging his face against the wall. Of all the guys he decided to act like a homosexual with, it has to be one of those prissy types who will call you an offender if you as much as breath the wrong way around them. (Deep down, Armie doesn’t really think like this. Doesn’t believe in people accusing other people of being sex-offenders just for the hell of it. Knows that it’s a real issue, a real big fucking issue. Believes that the only one who gets to decide if you feel harassed, offended is yourself. But he just cannot deal with this right now. And so what if he has a new set of moral standards for every shit-situation life throws at him? Give him a fucking break.) 

“You’re mistaking me for someone else. I would never do such a thing. Now come on, I don’t have time for this,” Armie says, starting to leave.

Again, he doesn’t get far. It takes a split second for Timothée to smash him back up against the wall. _God, please don’t let anyone see this_ , Armie thinks. He is practically being manhandled by a girl.

“Are you taking the piss right now?” Alright, might have to reevaluate on the girl thing. This kid is scary. And strong. And so, so beautiful up close. _Get a fucking grip, Hammer. You are straight. You like girls._

“I swear I’m not. Let go of me, you’re making us late for class.”

Timmy just squints his eyes even more, pushes Armie further up the wall, before he lets go. Takes a step back and raises an eyebrow. “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Danny Zuko?”

* * *

They make it through English. Armie has to sit next to Timothée again. He spends the whole time ignoring him though. It’s awkward and the angry vibes that floats out from the kid almost breaks Armie. Almost makes him flee the scene. He should’ve skipped the whole damned year.

* * *

At lunch break, Timothée follows behind him like a fly that just won’t fuck off no matter how aggressively you swat at it. At some point, Armie relents. Figures, that maybe Timothée is a fly in human shape. That if he just ignores him hard enough, he’ll disappear into thin air. Find another pile of shit to swam around or something.

He doesn’t though. Apparently, Armie is the most interesting pile of shit the whole schools got to offer.

When Armie puts down his tray at the usual table, he’s about to enjoy some peace and quiet before the rest of the guys will join him. He doesn’t get to do that, because this day is out to get him, and Timmy is a mighty good assistant for that job.

The kid lets his tray slam down on the table in front of Armie, his apple rolling across the table, juice spilling on the tray. It startles Armie, making him look up at Timothée.

“I know it was you. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” Timothée says, leaning over the table, effectively looming over Armie, making him lean his head back to look up at the fuming, elf-like creature. 

“If you aren’t old enough to ask before touching things, you shouldn’t be allowed out on your own. Now, the right thing to do after trampling all over other people’s basic human rights, is to locate your fucking balls and apologize. Think you can do that, big man?”

_Defiantly not a girl, then._

“What human rights? It’s not like I’ve waterboarded or raped you,”

Timothée looks furious and he understands why, he really does. He knows that he’s being thick on purpose, but this is embarrassing. He’s panicking, and this is his knee jerk reaction. To talk back, try to play it cool even though he knows that he’s being a prize idiot.

“My right to say who touches my body and when they touch my body. And you know what—you might as well have, because essentially, all those things are about taking the liberty of using another person’s body for you own personal gain, _without consent,_ ” Timothée spits, his breath coming out in puffs of air, hitting Armie in the face.

Armie swallows. Does it again. Curls his hands into fists beneath the table. This is a lost battle and he knows it. From here on, he can only admit guilty and hope to God that it’ll make the whole thing go away.

“Alright. I’m sorry. Now sit your ass back down and shut up,” Armie hisses. Looks around the cafeteria, makes sure that no one heard anything.

(Later, much later, Armie will put this incident on his list of Big-Regrets-in-The-Life-of-Armie-Hammer. Will feel sick when he thinks about the way he treated Timothée, when in reality, he deserved so much better.)

Sitting back down, Timothée grabs his apple. Sends Armie a beaming smile, says, “thank you. You’re forgiven.” Then, he carries on with his lunch. As if he hadn’t just told the alpha male off in the middle of a high school cafeteria, on his first freaking day. The shame Armie feels is oozing off of him and he fears that he’ll carry it with him for the rest of his life. That this incident will haunt him as a nagging feeling in the back of his mind till the day he dies.

When the guys sit down with them, Timothée introduces himself as `Timmy´, and it feels like Armie is the only who thinks that this is wrong. That they shouldn’t be so quick to love the new kid. Thinks that it would be so much easier if he didn’t have to look at that crooked smile, the freckles on his straight, slim nose.

_If there is a God and a heaven –_ Armie thinks – _there must be a hell too. And maybe, hell isn’t a specific place. Maybe, hell will take shape in the form of a person who looks like an angel._

He’ll have to ask his mother later. Timothée defiantly looks like Armie’s personal hell.

* * *

Leaning against the side of his car, Armie waits for Nick. He hasn’t seen him all day, and it might’ve actually been one of the things that had made this day so shit. Not because Armie can’t go a day without Nick and not cry himself to sleep, no. It’s just that, Nick is his best friend. And he knows Armie’s moods, knows when to push and when to pull. Is always just there. Yeah, if Armie tends to feel a little calmer when Nick is around, sue him. This day had been testing Armie on so many levels, and the only thing he’d looked forward to, hadn’t been there all day. He hadn’t even been there at lunch, Armie has no idea why. So, yeah, he missed his best friend. The only person he allows himself to miss, to depend on. Because Nick has been around since Armie learned how to walk.

He generally thinks it’s stupid to depend on other people. It only sets you up for disappointment when the person you trust, need, inevitable lets you down. Armie has learned that the hard way.

When Nick shows up from behind a row of cars, Armie straightens up. Pulls out his pack of Marlboro from his jean pocket, snatches two cigarettes.

“Fuck, what a day,” Nick moans as he takes one of the fags, puts it between his lips. When he starts patting his pockets, Armie hands him his lighter too.

“Yeah, where’ve you been all day?” Armie asks. Takes back his lighter, lights up his own cigarette.

Breathing in deep, Armie feels the smoke travel down his throat, his lungs. Feels the nicotine do its work, the tension in his shoulders easing up a little. He doesn’t like the smell of it, but God he loves the feeling.

“Well, first of all, I got send to the back of the class. What was even that? Wasn’t that kid old enough to sit on his own? Second of all, Mrs. Anderson had me running around all of lunch break, setting up for the new exchange students,” Nick says. Rolls his eyes and sucks on his cigarette.

Armie chuckles, crosses his arms. Mrs. Anderson is their Spanish teacher from Sweden (yeah, both her English and Spanish accent is weird,) who very evidently has the hots for Nick. Nick, who’s too kind to let her down easy, maybe because he feels bad for her, maybe because she is in charge of who passes Spanish and who don’t. It’s totally fucked up.

“Did she ask you for help in the storage closet again?” Armie asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Once, she had summoned Nick to help her reach something from a shelve in one of the tiny storage closest in the school. When Nick had gotten up to help her, she had pressed her body up against him, acting as if she needed to get something from the drawers in front of his crotch. Turns out that the books that Nick had retrieved from the shelves was about physics, which, Mrs. Anderson didn’t teach physics at all. When he’d turned around, tried to get out of the closet, she had pushed her boobs up against his arm, said “are you good at physics, Mr. Deli-Santi?”. Nick had been beat-red in the face when he’d made it back into class.

“Fuck you man,” Nick laughs.

“What about that new kid though? He cool?” Nick asks, leaning against the car besides Armie.

Yeah, the new kid. Armie had been on the edge all day because of him. Had been afraid that Timothée would rat him out to the whole school, effectively ruining his life for good. Had felt like he couldn’t keep up whenever he opened his mouth. Timothée is one those people who just knows everything, has an opinion on everything and Armie has a feeling that if you try to serve him bullshit, he will flip it right back at your face. He had felt intimidated on a whole new level. While, at the same time he felt intrigued, curious, about him. How, sometimes, Timothée looks so feminine, so graceful. And then, the next minute, he would walk down the hallway, his gait the most weird, awkward thing Armie had ever seen, smile crooked as if his face was pulled askew. Curls all over the place. Armie had only spend one day with the kid, and he felt fucking drained. Drained and exhausted with a sprinkle of horny.

“He’s a fucking pain in the ass,” Armie ends up saying.

“Aw man. Why?” Nick asks. Trust Nick to ask why. Nick never lets Armie vent without asking for his reasons. Never lets anyone tell him what to think and feel without being critical. It’s a curse and a blessing. Worst thing is, Armie can’t tell him why. Can’t tell him that his straight dick is confused whenever Timothée is around. Can’t tell Nick that he, apparently, violated the kid just last night. Can’t tell Nick that he feels as if Timothée is making the very ground he’s standing on shake beneath him. Because Nick will just keep asking “why?”, push and pull at Armie until he says the thoughts that he can’t even allow himself to really think, out loud.

“He’s talking all the god damned time. He’s so loud, can barely hear my own thoughts,” Armie mumbles. Finishes his cigarette, squashing it under his sneakers.

“At least he’s not quiet and awkward then,” Nick says. Slaps Armie on the back. “You have any idea why you got assigned to him though?”

Armie just huffs. “Not in the slightest.”

So, fucking typical of Nick to always, _always,_ see things from the bright side. It’s fucking annoying, can’t he just agree with Armie when he’s pissed?

“You’ve got work today?” Nick asks, grabbing his backpack from the ground.

“Yeah, why?”

“Might come by later to say hi to the girls.” Nick winks.

Armie laughs, says, “you seriously need to get laid dude,” and throws the door to the driver seat open.

“Hey, who says I ain’t?” Nicks calls after him, starting to walk towards his own car.

Starting his car, Armie pulls out of the parking lot, heading towards the rescue center for dogs where he volunteers three days a week.

* * *

On Tuesday, Armie wakes up to the blaring of his alarm. Smacks the screen three times before he hits the snooze button. Pulls the duvet over his head and sinks into the mattress. Closes his eyes and lets his brain wake up, come back to life.

_It’s Tuesday. School and practice._

_Timothée. Oh, fuck me._

Pulling the duvet back again, Armie almost jolts out of bed. Today is a new day. He’ll make sure to really ignore Timothée this time, not give him the satisfaction of attention. He’ll force himself to be too busy to think any un-straight thoughts. Maybe he’ll even join Ashton at the benches when the cheering team has practice. Yeah, he’ll do that. That’s probably what he needs. Tits and pussy. Man-to-man quality time. Timothée will have to find his own friends eventually, right?

He’ll be good today. The best of the best.

At breakfast, he’s father is absent, which makes it considerably easier to keep his promise to himself about having a good day. His mother never talks much, just sips her coffee, clutches her pearls absentmindedly. Armie never looks too closely at her, it just makes his blood boil. But nope, not today, Satan.

Throwing his backpack and the duffel filled with clothes for practice on the backseat of his car, he fires up for his favorite playlist. And so, what if it mostly contains Nickelback and The Fray? He will listen to what he fucking wants to, and no born-and-raised-metropolitan-hipster-dipshit can tell him any differently.

And no, that was not directed at any specific devil-spawn. Just, you know, hipsters in general. 

Blasting “Burn It to the Ground” through the car speakers, Armie drums his fingers on the wheel. Flores it all the way to school while bobbing his head to the music until he pulls up in front of the school in his blue Chevrolet C10. He loves this car more than half of his family. Just kidding… No, not really.

Turning of the engine, he grabs his bags, jumps out of the car and slams the door shut.

The sun is out, and today, he isn’t hungover. It’s gonna be a good day, he can just feel it.

He almost whistles as he walks towards the entrance, but then again, that might give the wrong impression. Armie Hammer doesn’t whistle. Not at school, anyway. Smoothing his features into something resembling uninterested, Armie walks towards his locker. Almost turns on his heel when he sees the nuisance standing in front of it, crooked smile and everything.

Jesus, what would it take to make the guy wipe that smile off his face? Pictures of his own mouth covering Timothée’s suddenly flashes before his eyes.

_Fucking fine, then. Let him smile._

“What do you want?” Armie asks, coming to a halt in front of Timothée who’s blocking his way. _You were supposed to ignore him, remember? Where the fuck did your spine go?_

“Can’t remember the way to English class, thought I’d just wait for you to show up and lead the way,” Timothée says, his New York accent and smooth voice washing over Armie. He is very aware that in any other universe, this would’ve been a mighty fine way to start the day. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Armie’s hands shake, his stomach doing summersaults. _Tits and pussy, dude._

“I literally showed you the way less than 24 hours ago, man,” Armie says. Sighs and gives up when Timothée doesn’t move. Steps up to the kid and shoves him to the side with his shoulder. He can’t risk touching him with his hands, fears his own body’s reaction if he does that.

“Yeah but, you know, I was busy taking it all in and now I’ve forgotten already. Woops.” Looking at Timothée, Armie squints his eyes. They guy is grinning with his whole face. Armie smells bullshit. Timothée didn’t forget the way, no, he is out to get Armie. Whatever the reason might be, Armie doesn’t like it one bit.

Pulling out his stuff and leaving his duffel bag behind, Armie slams his locker shut and yeah, he might’ve used a little more force than necessary. _Woops._

“Then I suggest you concentrate this time,” Armie says. His voice leaves no room for jokes.

They only make it halfway down the hallway before Timothée quips up again.

“What were you up to yesterday?”

_For motherfucking reals? What is this kid even?_

“None of your business,” Armie says.

“Well, I was just wondering. You seem like the busy type.”

“Yeah, too busy to babysit your ass for one.” _That will show him,_ Armie thinks.

“What do you do with your free time? I mean, when you’re not too busy being a self-imposed important asshole,” Timothée continues while he keeps in perfect stride with Armie. _You just can’t shake this guy, can you?_

Turning around, glaring down into Timothée’s face (thank fuck he’s at least still taller,) Armie says, “wanna know what I do? I fuck my girlfriend until she can’t walk.”

That actually makes Timothée shut up and just blink back at Armie. For about half a minute. “Who’s your girlfriend? Is she from around here? I don’t think you’ve introduced me to her yet.”

_Why the fuck did you say that? You idiot. How long is gonna take him to figure out that you don’t have a girlfriend? A week? A day? Half a day?_

“She’s lives a across the city, I’m not gonna introduce you.” _Holy hell, will you shut up?_

“What’s her name? Is she hot?” Timothée asks.

Starring back at him, Armie feels a blush creep up his face. The little shit has him figure out already. This is so embarrassing.

“Yeah, she is. Nice ass. Great uhm… tits, pussy--you know.” It’s official. Armie is moving to Greenland after this. 

Timothée just smirks, says “sure,” pats Armie on the shoulder and skips ahead.

When Armie makes his way into the classroom, Timothée is already sitting there, removing his bag from the chair beside him when Armie stands in front of it. 

_All the other seats were taken. Well, all the other good ones._

* * *

Their second period is math. Armie has already given up on shaking Timothée off, so when English class is over, he just sighs. Accepts the fact that he’ll have the kid trail behind him for the rest of the day. Rest of the week, probably. But, Armie promises himself, after this week, he’ll make sure that Timothée doesn’t want to plaster himself to Armie any longer. Whatever it takes, he needs the kid to get lost. He just can’t deal with the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts that seems to hit him in the face every time the kid is anywhere near him. It’s maddening.

The only consolation he had during English, was that Timothée didn’t ask him about personal stuff. Just stuck to school-related topics.

That solace is gone by the time they’ve taken their seats in math class though.

Armie is leaned back in his seat, arms crossed in front of his chest. He can feel Timothée staring again. He just ignores it; figures he’ll have to get used to it. _This kid is not discreet in any way._

Suddenly, Timothée is reaching out a hand, tracing a small scar on Armie’s cheek. It startles him so bad he almost flinches away from the touch. _Almost._

Because the tip of the finger tracing his skin is soft, cool. Timothée’s eyes are concentrated on the small pink line, his mouth slightly open, making it possible for Armie to see the tip of his tongue. It sets his whole nervous system off. The world around him freezes for a second, his breath caught in his throat, heart hammering so loud he can almost hear it.

“What happened to your cheek?” Timothée asks, voice full of curiosity.

Armie snaps out of it. Jerks his head to the side, the feeling of smooth skin gone.

“Rough practice. Happened a long time ago,” Armie lies.

It didn’t happen during practice.

It is a long time ago, though. Armie doesn’t really know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It could either mean that it just won’t happen again – or, that it’s bound to happen again sometime soon. He’s got a feeling that it’s the latter.

“Looks like it must’ve hurt pretty badly,” Timothée says.

Armie just shrugs his shoulder. Swallows thickly, he tries to get rid of the tight feeling in his throat. The rest of the period, he can’t stop bouncing his leg.

* * *

At lunch, Timothée has just plumbs down in front of him at the table, when Nick slides up beside Armie.

“Man, I feel like practice is gonna kick my ass so hard today,” Nick says. Looks up and sees Timothée sitting in front of him.

“Hi, I’m Nick. You must be Timothy?” Nick asks, plastering on his broadest smile while sticking out his hand. Taking Nick’s outstretched hand, Timothée beams right back at him. “I am, but please, call me Timmy. That’s what I usually go by.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Timmy,” Nick says.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Timmy answers. Visibly squeezes Nick’s hand for the _second_ time and _winks_.

Armie snorts, rolls his eyes before he stabs a tomato with his fork. The juice from it splatters onto his light grey t-shirt, making him dap at it aggressively, cursing under his breathe. When he only achieves to make the stain worse, he throws the paper towel on the table, glaring back down at his salad. _Fuck this shit._ He’d rather starve than sit here and watch his best friend turn gay in front of his own eyes, just because some brat from New York decided to prance in here, effectively disrupting Armie’s whole life.

Timothée and Nick side eyes him the whole time, probably feeling uncomfortable as hell in the presence of his outburst. _Good. Maybe it’ll make them leave him alone. At the very least, make Timothée leave him alone._

“So, Nick. What kind of practice?” Timothée asks, clearly having decided to ignore Armie’s suffering. It takes Nick a second to catch on, before he shakes out of it and says, “oh, you know, football. Armie is our captain, actually. Didn’t he tell you?”

Frowning slightly, as if to be cute, Timothée tilts his head, looks at Armie. (Who most defiantly doesn’t glance up at him briefly. Nope.)

“No, he didn’t,” Timothée says, his voice alarmingly sweet, making the hairs in Armie’s neck stand up. “But you know, he’s been pretty busy telling me about this girlfriend of his, that’s probably why he forgot about it.”

Nick’s immediate reaction is to choke on his apple juice. Armie almost starts patting him on the back, but then Nick heaves in a deep breath. Regains control over his breathing again.

“Oh, yeah. He never shuts up about her. It’s insufferable, really,” Nick says. The tone of his voice doesn’t leave out the fact that Nick thinks he’s being an ass right now. Armie doesn’t look up from his food, just acts as if he isn’t there at all. Maybe, if he stares hard enough on the stray piece of lettuce on his tray, he’ll disappear from this cluster-fuck he’s gotten himself into. He can still feel Nick’s eyes on him though. They’re burning trough the side of his face.

“I think it’s cute, though,” Timothée says.

Armie doesn’t say anything, just eats the rest of his food without tasting it. Sends a death glare at anyone who dares to come near him for the rest of lunch break. How the fuck did he manage to pull that deadass stupid lie out of his stupid fucking ass and then feed it to the actually _devil_ while at the same time watch his best friend get brainwashed by said devil in the same day? No, the day isn’t even over yet. He’s only halfway through.

* * *

Armie survives the rest of the day. Plows through practice until he is positively exhausted together with Nick, who thankfully doesn’t bring Armie’s brain-fart up. When he makes his way home with Nick in the afternoon, he feels lighter. Almost gets his hopes up that maybe he’ll be so drained tonight that he’ll just fall asleep, stay asleep and not wake up before the next morning.

Armie should’ve known better than to think that Nick would let the whole girlfriend-topic rest.

They’re playing FIFA, when Nick says, “So, what was that about today? You’ve got a girlfriend now?” Glancing over at Armie, not getting an answer, he continues. “Because at first, I was like, huh. Why didn’t Armie tell me about this? But then I realized that maybe, just maybe, you’ve told Timmy a big fat lie. And I figured that either way, that’s just a shitty thing to do. Amirite?” He doesn’t even look at Armie, just focuses on the game, a concentrated look on his face, his voice completely stable and calm.

Armie freezes for a second. For a moment, he silently curses Timothée for even existing.

_You’re the one who lied about it in the first place. You can’t blame other people for your own fuckups._

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Armie doesn’t say anything, merely hums in acknowledgement.

Armie knows better though. This is Nick being disappointed in him. This is Armie being told off by the only person he’ll actually listen to. It sucks.

“I know. Just—I know.” Armie sighs. He really doesn’t want to get into this right now.

Pausing the game, Nick turns to him, brown eyes boring into his soul.

“So, who did you lie to? Me, or Timmy?”

The way he says it, Armie doesn’t know which one would be worse, actually. Nick looks like he’ll give him hell either way.

“I might’ve exasperated a little in front of Timothée,” Armie says. Looks down at his hands. Hates how small Nick can make him feel. How pathetic he feels when Nick tells him to stop acting like a bag of shit. He can do better than this.

Nick’s features soften. He throws the controller on the couch, scoots over to Armie and pulls him into a hug. Armie’s body is completely stiff. It’s like, every move, every thought he makes around other guys these days throws him into a new spiral of doubt, anxiety. What if the comfortable feeling he has in his body when Nick is around is actually him being a sick fuck? (Armie knows being gay isn’t wrong, would never compare other gay people with anything bad. He just can’t be one himself.)

“What is it with you these days?” Nick asks, still holding Armie, even though the angel is awkward.

“Nothing,” Armie says. Shrugs off Nick’s arms.

Squinting his eyes, Nick looks at him thoughtfully. Says, “you know you can just tell me, right?”

Armie knows that he probably could. Nick wouldn’t judge him, at least, he doesn’t think so. He has a feeling, that maybe, he might actually be the one judging himself the most. But he can’t tell anyone though. Can’t let himself think these things, can’t let himself feel anything. Saying it out loud to Nick would make it real. Having Nick telling him that it’s no big deal, will break down his defense completely. He’ll be exposed, out in the open and the panic and fear will overwhelm him, eat him raw and he’ll have nothing left. Nothing. That’s how he feels, and he can’t tell anybody. Can just hope that this will pass, that he’ll one day wake up, all the pain being forgotten.

“I’m just dealing with some shit these days. I’ll—I’ll tell you if I need to.”

Looking slightly worried, Nick asks him, “this wouldn’t by any chance have anything to do with you telling Timmy about imaginary girlfriends, would it?”

Armie just shrugs. _It’s got everything to do with Timmy. And yet—this was a problem even before him. He just. He just makes everything come out into the light. Makes everything painfully clear._

Shaking his head resolutely, Armie un-pauses the game. Doesn’t answer Nick. It’s not even necessary though, Nick always figures things out way before Armie does. In this case, that actually scares Armie a bit.

Later that night, Armie lies in his bed, starring up at the ceiling. Can hear his father’s voice booming from somewhere in the house. He doesn’t know who’s at the receiving end this time. It could be one of the employees from the company. It could be one the employees at the house, it could be his mother. It could be anyone, really. Rolling onto his side, facing the door he’s just thankful that it isn’t him this time. He keeps an eye on the door, though. Knows better than to trust his father’s reasoning. He made sure to lock it before he went to bed, but he’s not stupid. If his father wants to take out his rage on Armie, he won’t let a door stop him. Laying completely still, starring at the door, Armie can hear the house going quiet. No yelling, no crying, no screaming. That’s a good sign.

Five minutes later, it’s still completely quiet. Armie lets go of his breath and closes his eyes.

He’s just started seeing weird shapes and colors, arbitrary thoughts clouding his mind, body going numb when he startles awake to the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand.

Squinting his eyes at the bright screen, Armie is in the middle of reading a text, when another comes in, shortly followed by one more.

Unknown _: hey there. just wanted to ask if you’d mind showing me to the locker rooms tomorrow morning? thank you!_

Unknown _: oh this is timmy btw_

Unknown _: nick gave me your number_

Of course, it’s Timmy. Armie knows that by the first text alone. It doesn’t stop his heart from kicking into gear though, a jolt going through his stomach. Then, when he realizes that straight guys don’t feel this way around other dudes, another zing goes through his stomach. This one hurts though, in the bad way. Reminds him of the feeling he had in his stomach half an hour ago when he could hear his father raging on.

Armie _: why don’t u just make nick show u around?_

Unknown _: that’s the thing though he can’t make it_

Placing the phone screen-down on his chest, Armie stares up at the dark ceiling for the second

time this night and tries to stop his hands from shaking. Tries to will the nerves in his stomach to fuck off. _Not gay, not gay, not gay._

Armie _: u srsl need to ask the admin for a freaking map or something_

Armie _: meet me at my locker at 8.05_

Armie _: im not gonna wait around for u_

Unknown _: aw knew I could count on u!_

_That’s his own god damned mistake then,_ Armie thinks to himself.

He spends an hour just starring into the dark, sleep escaping him the whole time.

Then, he gives up. Finds his headphones, pulls up Pornhub. Makes a straight line for the lesbian category and slips his hands into his boxers. He spends just about 20 minutes looking at girls scissoring each other, licking and fingering, his cock only half hard the whole time. To be honest, that’s probably only because he’s touching it.

Then, he craves in as much as he dares to, and clicks on a video of a girl fucking herself in the ass with a dildo that doesn’t really resemble a dick much. It’s just smooth and pink. It makes him hard enough to actually enjoy it, but it doesn’t make him cum. Not even close.

When he’s spent 35 minutes jerking off but to no avail, he almost cries out in frustration.

He’s tired, exhausted, both mentally and physically. His dick won’t cooperate, and all he wants to do is sleep, have some peace and quiet. And he would have, if it weren’t for Timmy, who had woken him up. Had made him lay here, wide awake, on the verge of abusing his own poor dick, on the verge of crying. It’s too much, he can’t take it anymore. He’s got no more fight left in him for today.

Turning off his phone, pulling out the headphones, Armie closes his eyes. Bites his lip and gives in, lets the pictures created by his fantasy wash over him. Soft fingertips, the tip of a pink tongue and curious eyes is all it takes for him to cum all over himself. It makes his toes curl, his teeth cutting into his bottom lip so hard it actually hurts. Two minutes later, he’s a sleep, his brain finally giving him some peace.

The whole night he dreams of drowning in a dark ocean, waves the size of ships crashing over him.


	3. Laurie and Jo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie knows that he shouldn’t be staring at him. Should just get his ass moving, go home. Should at least make a snarky comment about Timothée being a wimp, a sissy. But he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: assault/domestic violence

The next morning, Armie is leaning against his locker. It’s 8 am sharp, his hoodie is pulled up, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s tired, but his blood is pumping through his veins faster than necessary due to his skipping heart. He’s listening out for wheezy laughs and a ridiculous accent, fingers tapping impatiently on his forearm. _It’s the caffein, the drag of having to wait around for irrelevant people,_ he tells himself.

He’d been restless the whole night, dreams and feelings tumbling around inside his brain, making him feel as if he’d been mentally awake all night.

The masses of high school students rushing by him in the hallways does nothing to calm his heightened senses. He’s straining his ears, listening out for Timothée, because duh, he doesn’t have all morning to wait around here. It’s difficult though, and every time he spots a set of dark wild hair, his heart skips a beat.

No one really looks like Timothée though, they’re all too plain. Timothée is not in any way plain, doesn’t stand a chance of merging in with the crowds. Even if he wore the same clothes as everyone else, he would still stand out. Not that Armie spends more time observing Timothée’s movements, voice, smile, the weird sort of glow he carries around himself, than anyone else would. Fuck no, he’s too busy for that, too straight. Everyone notices these things too, right? The kid is so… so, out of the ordinary that everyone would stop and stare. Right?

Checking the time on his phone, Armie sighs. 8.04 am. The kid’s got one more minute, and then Armie is out of here. Scanning the crowd again, Armie wonders if he missed him while looking at his phone. Then, tries to reason with himself that no one walks that fast. Besides, Timothée asked him to wait for him.

Why does he even need to know where the locker rooms are? He’s got drama first period. Then they have history and biology together. _Fucking hell, since when did he know the kids schedule better than his own?_ If anyone is to ask, Armie will tell them that he’s just doing his job. Helping Timothée settle in and all.

When the time says 8.06 Timothée still hasn’t showed up. _Maybe his watch is a minute behind his own,_ Armie reasons to himself. He’s probably just around the corner. And wouldn’t it have been a waste of time waiting around for the kid, just to give up right before he showed?

Again, if anyone is to ask, he’s only pissed because Timothée is wasting his time. Not because he silently fears the rejection of being stood up. Brushed off, forgotten. Nope.

Checking the time again, Armie frowns. Timothée is five minutes late.

Just as Armie looks back up, he spots Timothée walking down the hallway, head bent down, cap shadowing his face from Armie. Armie’s heart jumps again. Turning around in a (very) small panic, Armie opens his locker, just to slam it shut again. Turns back around, hoist his bag further up his shoulder, acting as if he is just about to leave. As if he hadn’t noticed Timothée already.

“Yo, Armie, wait up!” Timothée calls.

Armie’s stomach feels squirmy, his hands shaking as he decides to just stuff them in the pockets of his jeans. They feel cold and clammy, all of a sudden. _He might be coming down with something._

“I told you not to be late,” Armie barks. Silently congratulates himself for not squeaking like a girl.

“I know man, sorry ‘bout that. Should we get going?” Timothée asks. And it’s funny, because to Armie, it sounds as if Timothée isn’t sorry at all. It sounds as if he isn’t even aware that he’s been keeping _The Armie Hammer_ waiting (alright, he admits that it might be a bad habit calling himself that,) but that still doesn’t make up for the fact that Timothée needs to learn how to play by the rules. Because if Armie lets the kid steam roll all over him like this, he’ll be sitting with the geeks by the end of this year. And fuck no if he’ll let Timothée waltz in here and trample all over his pride.

Armie glares at him, says, “I only waited this once. Next time, your ass will have to find its own way around alone.”

“Oh, there won’t be a next time, don’t worry,” Timothée grins.

“What, you suddenly know your way around?” This is getting ridiculous. Five minutes ago, the kid couldn’t even find Armie’s locker on time.

“Nooo, but Nick agreed to help me out with the rest, he just couldn’t make it today.” The shit eating grin on Timothée’s face is making Armie’s blood boil. _See,_ Armie thinks, _you ain’t gay for shit. This kid is a menace that gets off on tap dancing on your very last nerves. You can’t fucking stand the little shit. And why the hell is Nick suddenly offering up being a personal tour guide? What the fucking fuck is going on?_ And no, don’t even think for a second that this has anything to do with Armie having gotten into his head that he is special, no. It’s got no-fucking-thing to do with Armie being _jealous._ That would be downright laughable. If Nick wants to play nanny, then let him. 

Turning the corner to the locker rooms, Armie points at the first door in the hallway, then the second, says, “girls. Guys.” Immediately regrets looking at Timothée, who licks his lips, before looking at Armie. “I asked you to show me the actual rooms, Armie, not the door.”

_What the fuck is it with this guy?_

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Armie rolls his eyes. Pushes open the door to the empty locker room, before making his way inside.

“Alright, so these—are the lockers,” Armie says, purposely sounding as if he’s talking to a slow child. “You use them for storage, you know- clothes, shoes. You know what those are, right?”

Timothée just hums, follows closely behind Armie. _God, he really is annoying._

“And these things--” Armie continues, “are the showers. You know how they work?”

Armie turns around, planning on giving Timothée an overly sweet smile, when suddenly, the guy is all up in Armie’s personal space. When Timothée takes a step closer, Armie automatically moves backwards, effectively making Timothée crowd him up against the stall of the shower.

“You always such a smart-mouth in the morning, huh?” Timothée asks. Leans in a little closer, bracing himself with a flat palm against Armie’s chest. _What the fuck is it with this kid and personal space?_ Armie thinks. Then, immediately follows up on that with _Oh, like you’re one to talk, ass-groper._

 _“_ Are you always wasting other people’s time? _”_ Armie counters. And yeah, it’s the best he got, so fucking what? This is intimidating.

“You really think I’m wasting your time, Armie?” Timothée asks. Spreads his fingers across Armie’s chest, making Armie’s nipples stand to attention, his heart galloping like ten wild horses in early spring. _Fuck, no more caffein for him._

He’s a little nervous that Timothée will be able to tell. Will feel how affected he is by his proximity. _Fuck. It’s one thing to feel and think these inappropriate things to himself, without anybody knowing. But to have Timothée know, or even suspect, it would finish Armie completely._

Luckily, he doesn’t get to answer. Doesn’t get to dwell on the fact that Timothée’s face is only centimeters away from his own, that he can smell the kid’s shampoo, the smell of menthol cigarettes on his breath. Doesn’t get to dwell on the feel of the warm palm splayed out on his chest, because suddenly the locker room is filling up, snapping them both out of what-ever is going on.

* * *

Armie ends up being late for practice, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. The coach preaches up and down the track field about discipline and being on fucking time. First, Armie mentally curses his coach in all the ways he can think of in English. Then, repeats the process with Timothée, only this time, he rakes his brain for curse words in Spanish and Russian too. Hates that the only one he can think of in Spanish is _puta_ , which, it isn’t even that suitable for Timothée, because Armie is fairly sure that even though Timothée is many sinful things, a prostitute is probably not one of them.

* * *

“I’m throwing a thing on Friday,” Nick announces. They’re sitting in the cafeteria and their table is packed. Mostly guys from the football team, including Ashton and Tyler. Tyler doesn’t play football, though, says he can’t risk losing any of his genius creative brain cells on such violent activities. Armie thinks that’s about the most pretentious thing he’s ever heard coming from Tyler.

But then again, Tyler and Ashton don’t have to deal with parents pressuring them to do anything other than what they love. He knows how Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey are equally proud werether they’re attending Ashton’s games or Tyler’s art exhibits.

“A party? When? Where?” It’s Henry. Armie thinks he’s cool enough, but that’s about it. Henry is a big guy, always walks around looking way more serious than he actually is. In reality, he’s just a soft idiot. Doesn’t mean the girls don’t fall for him though. And Armie knows that if Henry had been taking the team a little more serious, he would be the captain right now. Knows that the only reason why Henry is beneath him in the social food-chain is because he doesn’t care about those things. Just cares about the next party, the next pretty thing throwing herself in his ridiculously huge arms. Makes a fool of himself half the time, and no, Armie doesn’t regret that he can’t make light of life like Henry can. Because this way, he gets to be the one the whole school is cheering at when they have a game. He gets to be the one who chooses first, always.

_Doesn’t really matter when you can’t choose the things you want the most though, does it?_

_Man, just shut up for one second, please._

“I said, a _thing,_ so please don’t bring half the female freshmen again, please,” Nick says, rolling his eyes.

“What? It wasn’t even my fault man, these things just – spread fast or something,” Henry says, trying to explain away why he, technically, was the reason for the police breaking up the party Nick threw last year. Armie had been out of there before the cops had even turned the corner down the road. Had spent two days apologizing to Nick for leaving when shit had gotten real. He just couldn’t risk things like that. Even now, he feels a chill run down his back just thinking about the way his father would react if he ever got caught in such a thing.

“What female freshmen?” This time, Armie actually raises his eyes from his food. It’s the accent that alarms him, as usual. Or, maybe it’s the ticklish feeling erupting in his stomach whenever the idiot standing at their table is around.

 _One day, I’d like to find out if my body actually feels him before my brain registers him_ , Armie thinks to himself. _You know, for scientific purposes only_. He does take his academic career serious, after all.

He is just about to tell Timothée that it’s none of his business. Say something along the lines of, _scram,_ or _, get lost._ But then he notices the girl standing beside him. She’s just about as skinny as Timothée, her faces peppered with freckles, blonde hair pulled in a ponytail. She’s absolutely beautiful, and damn, if he was just able to say that he wanted to get his hands on her, but no, he doesn’t. And like, she might be the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and yet, it does absolutely zero for him. _Nothing, nada._ No tinkling, not straining in his pants. No invisible pull.

 _It’s just the lack of sleep,_ he tells himself.

As usual, Nick beats him to it. Just, Nick is way more polite than Armie would ever be.

“Timmy, man. Sit—Ash, scoot,” Nick says, scooting to the side, making space for Timothée and the stranger tagging along. “I’m Nick--” he continues, offering his hand to the girl.

“Hi, I’m Saoirse. My pronouns are she and her. What’s yours?” she says, and like, woah, hold on a minute.

Saoirse? Armie just decides then and there not to address her by name, ever, because no way his articulators are going to be able to handle that many vowels all at once. _And yet, you insist on calling Timothée by his full name, even though he offered you the easy way out._

Armie just scoffs to himself, zooms back on track. What is that accent even? Scottish? Scandinavian? No, most Scandinavians sounds like they’re talking around a potato every time they speak English. (He only knows this because apparently, he’s got a second cousin or something over there, not sure if it’s in Copenhagen or Stockholm, but what’s the difference anyway? They’re all blonde and socialist anyway.)

And last, but certainly not least, what the fuck is she talking about? Pronouns? Like, Armie can see that she’s a girl. She’s got boobs for Christ sake. Does she think she’s talking to a bunch of retards?

Today is apparently the day where he decides to substitute for Henry by shoving his foot so far inside his mouth that he can barely get it back out again.

“What the fuck does a pronoun mean?” Armie asks. _Fucking hell. He knows what a pronoun is! And like, don’t ask shit like that, you idiot!_

For a second, the whole table is quiet. It’s the first time that he’s spoken up all lunch, and for a second, he’s pretty sure that everyone has been thinking the same thing as him. But no, because _Nick,_ knows. Of course. And by the looks of it, Timothée and Tyler does too. Even Henry smacks his own forehead. Their reactions got nothing on the look on Saoirse’s face, though.

She looks at him like he can’t help it. It doesn’t make him like her more, not at all.

“A pronoun is a word you can use instead of someone’s name. They refer to the gender the person identifies as, that’s why you should always make sure to ask people instead of just assuming. Because that would be like assuming someone’s name and you wouldn’t do that either.”

“I know what a pronoun is, just didn’t realize that we had to inform people about our sexuality every time we meet someone new,” Armie grumbles. Stares back down at his food. It doesn’t have the desired effect though, just spurs Saoirse on to continue.

“Well, your pronouns don’t really have anything to do with your actual sexuality, so--”

“Don’t mind him, he’s always slow at adjusting,” Nick cuts her off. _Good._ Because Armie would’ve probably gotten himself into even deeper water if she’d kept talking. 

“I use he/him pronouns by the way,” Nick continues. Armie almost hates him a little. Almost, because Nick is always the quick one, the most progressive one. Always knows what jokes you aren’t allowed to use anymore, which Halloween-costumes will offend people this season and so on, before Armie does, and he actually appreciates Nick for saving his ass each and every time.

He still doesn’t like that he needs to be saved, though. Deep down, he’d rather not offend anyone, no matter how difficult a time he has relating to them. Right now, for example, he can’t help but think that _of course my pronouns are he and him. I was born like that._ But then again, he’s never really thought about it. Maybe he wasn’t even born like this, maybe he was just raised to be this, whatever _this_ is. Plus, he might not be as – what was it Nick called it once? – binary? Yeah, binary, as everyone thinks he is. As he wants to be. And wouldn’t it be nice to live a life where you could just decide who you want to be and then be that person? That thought almost makes him bark out a bitter laugh.

“How do you know Timmy?” he hears Nick ask.

“We’ve got drama together,” Timothée answers, beaming over at Saoirse.

“That’s nice,” Nick says. “I’m mostly into football, don’t really know much about arts and such, but from what Timmy’s told me, it sounds cool.”

_From what Timmy’s told him? How long has he known the kid? What the fuck?_

“Hey, what the fuck are you talking about dude? I talk to you about art all the time!” Tyler whines.

“Yeah, but maybe I find it more interesting when it’s coming from Timmy,” Nick teases back, nudging Timothée with his shoulder.

Saoirse winks at Timothée, who’s blushing like the virgin Armie would bet his car on that he isn’t. 

“Man, how did I even end up with you bunch of idiots,” Tyler grumbles.

 _Yeah,_ Armie thinks. _Bunch of idiots. Especially Nick and Timothée._

Right, he knows that he feels some kind of jealously. Not sure who it’s directed at though.

Tells himself that he’s just afraid of losing Nick. In truth, he’s been waiting for that to happen his whole life. Good things like Nick rarely happens to people like Armie. Wouldn’t it be perfect to have Timothée come all the way from New York to LA just to steal Armie’s best friend _and_ leave him confused about what is right and wrong?

Again, he really needs to ask his mom about the ways of the devil.

* * *

On Thursday morning, Timothée has once again taken a seat next to Armie. The kid is still as talkative as he had been the first half of the week and Armie is still as grumpy as he’s been since he went home Sunday night.

“What’s your favorite class?” Timothée asks him.

Armie sighs, looks at the clock hanging above the door. He really needs to stop showing up to class this early. How does he keep making this mistake? _Right, because he can’t stand being around his parents._

“I don’t know. English, probably,” Armie answers.

Timothée raises his eyebrows, a surprised look on his face. It annoys Armie on a whole new level.

“What?”

“No-nothing, I just figured it would’ve been something sports related or like-”

“So, just because I’m the captain of a sports team, you assumed I couldn’t read?”

“That is not what I was saying at all. I just figured that in order to spend so much time on something, you’d have to be pretty happy doing it,” Timothée snaps back. And yeah, Armie knows where he’s coming from. That doesn’t mean that he appreciates kids like Timothée assuming that he’s less intelligent or something though. Because he is. Intelligent, that is.

Just because he doesn’t look like a fucking nerd, doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

“Sure sounded like that’s what you were saying,” Armie grits out. Blowing out air through his nose, his jaw locked tight, he checks the time again. It’ll be at least 10 more minutes more before the teacher shows. This is just plain stupid.

“You probably haven’t guessed it, but my favorite is drama, then English” Timothée says. As if Armie didn’t just try and practically bite his head off. _Maybe there’s something wrong with him,_ Armie wonders. _Maybe he’s having social difficulties. Maybe he doesn’t know how to pick up on social cues or something. Yeah, that sounds plausible._

“You’re right, I would’ve never guessed,” Armie answers sarcastically. Leans his head on his hand, tries to make it as obvious as possible that this conversation is completely unwanted on his behalf.

“How long have you and Nick known each other?” Timothée continues.

“What is this, 20 questions?” Armie asks.

“Oh, that’s a good idea! Plus, if you're quick, I think we have time enough,” Timothée grins.

_Fuck, you could’ve seen that coming._

“I’m not playing 20 questions with you, Timothée.”

“How come you actually know how to pronounce my name? Do you practice at night in bed?”

Timothée asks, a smug look on his stupid, precious face. It makes Armie’s heart stop for a second, feeling caught. _There’s no way that he could know—I never said it out loud,_ Armie reassures himself.

Riding on a wave of panic induced adrenalin, Armie turns in his chair, leaning as close to Timothée as he dares, his eyes boring in to Timothée’s green, wondering orbs.

“I bet you would like that, huh? Sorry to disappoint you though, but I’ve got better stuff to do,” he says. Then, he immediately regrets sticking his nose that far into trouble, because when Timothée exhales, he can feel his breath against his own lips. Can almost taste the kid’s gum.

Timothée blinks at him, once, twice, before an easy smile spreads across his face. Licking his lip, his tongue almost brushes against Armie’s bottom lip. “That’s right, you’ve got your girlfriend,” he says. Then turns his attention towards the front of the class where Mrs. Lawson has just put her bag down.

Leaning back in his seat, Armie can hear the blood rushing in his ears, his mind running a thousand miles pr. Hour. _What the hell is he doing?_

* * *

The first 20 minutes of English class goes something along the lines of Timothée listening intently to Mrs. Lawson, while Armie stares blankly ahead.

 _Drama._ Armie can’t stop imagining the kid on a stage. The spotlights illuminizing him, for the whole crowd to gaze up at him, their faces filled with wonder and intrigue. No doubt envy and desire too. How he could probably stand completely still for hours, using nothing but his voice to captivate the audience. Armie knows that -even though he doesn’t want to admit it, can’t admit it really- he would be happy to just listen to Timothée’s voice for hours on end. Knows he would close his eyes and let that voice lure him in and take him under like a siren song. And he’d most likely go willingly, a smile on his face. And Timothée would pull him down, down, down, until Armie wouldn’t be able to get back up, even though it would kill him. He would follow Timothée, to death and places worse than that, and he wouldn’t even question it.

That’s why he needs to keep his eyes open. Why he needs to fight Timothée’s voice, his warmth. Otherwise, it’ll be the end of him. For that, he is sure.

Ten minutes before English class is over, Mrs. Lawson effectively ruins Armie’s plans of being rid of Timothée by the end of this week.

“So, this year I have decided that we try something new! Instead of you guys handing in smaller assignments every week, you’ll be given three major assignments throughout this year. That will hopefully give you the opportunity to get in depths with something that actually speaks to your interests. Today, I will pair you up two-and-two. If you find that the pairings just don’t work out, come talk to me about it and we’ll make sure that you get a new partner for the next assignment. Now, until next time I want you to find a piece of literature from the 18th century, read it and talk to each other about it. I suggest that to the extent possible, you sit together when you read it. That way, you can voice your immediate thoughts to one a another. Further instructions will be handed out on Monday.”

Alright, this doesn’t sound that bad. Armie actually likes reading, and now they even get to choose what they want to read themselves. Plus, he’ll probably be paired up with Nick. He always does.

“Mr. Tyler Ramsey and Mrs. James. Mr. Gavill and Mrs. Vikander. Mr. Deli-Santi and Mr. Ashton Ramsey--” _whaaat_? “--Mr. Hammer and Mr. Chalamet.” _No-no-no-no-no, please for the love of fucking hell, no!_

Letting his head fall forward into his hands, Armie closes his eyes. This is the worst. How is he supposed to shake Timothée off if they’re pairing up for this apparently long-term assignment? How are they even supposed to agree on anything? And last, but certainly not least, how is he supposed to survive being alone with the kid?

The feeling in his stomach is a weird mixture between dread and excitement. Alone with Timothée. _Alone,_ with Timothée. _Alone, with Timothée._

Fuck, he’ll need to concentrate not to lose focus.

* * *

“So, I think we should probably find a book today,” Timothée says, as he picks up his backpack.

“Uh yeah, we should,” Armie says, trying not to fidget with his hands. The prospect of being alone with Timothée makes him nervous. _It’s probably just because you haven’t spent time with him one on one before. He’s practically a stranger… pft!_

“We could meet up at the library when school is over?” Timothée asks.

“Yes, that’s – let’s do that,” Armie answers.

Pushing in his chair, Timothée pats Armie on the bicep, says, “see you later then,” smiles and leaves.

Armie can feel the place Timothée touched him all the way to his next class.

* * *

“Got any idea as to what we should choose?” Timothée asks as they make their way up the stairs to the library.

“Uh, as long as it’s not _Frankenstein,_ ” Armie says, holding the door open for Timothée.

“Why? You don’t like it?”

“It just creeps me out,” Armie admits.

“Seriously? a big guy like you? You know it’s just fiction, right?” Timothée says, his voice teasing.

Armie just wish people would stop assuming things about his mental state based on his physique. But then again, he’s only surviving in this world because of what people assume about him.

“It’s still a nasty ass concept,” Armie argues.

“Well, no _Frankenstein_ for you then,” Timothée says, swiping his student id.

Walking in front of Armie, Timothée makes his way down the rows of books. He’s wearing a dark green track suit that doesn’t really look like it’s supposed to be used for running. It looks way too thick and soft. For a second, Armie wonders if it’s as soft as Timothée’s curls look. Then scolds himself for thinking about that. He needs to focus on the task ahead. _Find a book. Read it. Get it over with. Tell Mrs. Lawson that you need a new partner for the next assignment._

“I say we read _Anna Karenina”_ Timothée says, turning down a small isle between bookcases.

The library is mostly empty, but as Timothée makes his way down to the end of the isle, his voice seems even more quiet. As if the rows of books just absorb any kind of noise. _They probably do,_ Armie chides himself. _It’s called acoustics._

“No, not that one,” Armie says immediately. _Not that one._

“Why?”

“Because I want to read--” Armie quickly scans the shelve in front of him, “— _Little Women_.”

“Seriously?” Timothée asks, looking at Armie as if he can’t be serious.

“Seriously,” Armie confirms.

“I don’t want to read that one. I already did, and it made me feel sad,” Timothée argues.

“Sad? Why would it make you feel sad?”

“Haven’t you read it? Jo breaks Laurie’s heart! And Beth dies! I’m not gonna push through that again, nope.”

Armie can’t believe him. This little minx is actually saying that he can’t stand a little unrequited love and death? How is he ever going to survive in this world? These things are basically the first steps in How-To-Be-Armie-Hammer 101. (Yeah, yeah that’s a bit dramatic, but then again, not really.)

“How far did you read?” Armie asks, leaning against the shelve.

“Uh, far enough to know that it didn’t end happily. ”

“You stopped reading when Jo and Laurie stood on that hill!” Armie accuses, a smile breaking through.

“Did not!”

“You so did, you little shit.” Armie is now grinning with his whole face. _What a wimp._

“Anyway, _big shit_ , we’re reading _Anna Karenina,_ ” Timothée says resolutely.

“Nope, I told you so. I don’t want to. We’re going with Laurie and Jo, because you need to read the end,” Armie says, reaching out and prying _Anna Karenina_ out of Timothée’s hands.

Sighing, Timothée says, “whatever,” and starts walking towards the front of the library.

Armie almost expects the kid to stomp all the way, but to his great disappointment, he doesn’t.

* * *

Turns out, the library only had one copy of _Little Women._

“Well, if _someone_ would’ve let me choose _Anna Karenina_ , this wouldn’t have been a problem,” Timothée points out.

Armie is very well aware of this fact. But he just really didn’t want to read that one, not with Timothée of all people. He’d just have to think of a solution.

“We could take turns? I can read it first, then give to you afterwards,” Armie suggest. _No way he’s going to read it at the same time as Timothée. That would be too much for his senses, his brain would just short circuit with all the confusion._

“Yeah, brilliant idea, if we didn't have to finish it before Monday,” Timothée deadpans.

“Then you come up with a solution!” Armie says. _Ugh, this guy._

“I think we should go to your place and read it together, at the same time,” Timothée suggest. _Ha! Not in this life._

“How would that even work? And why are we going to my place? Don’t you live somewhere too?”’

Timothée just stares at him, his face the perfect expression of, _give me a break._

“We open the book on the first page, then we start reading the words, that’s how. I thought you said you could read?”

“Of course, I can, that’s not what I meant!”

“Besides, we can’t stay at my place, I forgot my key this morning and my parents won’t be home until late, so,” Timothée says, his eyes looking everywhere but Armie.

_Well, we sure as hell aren’t going back to my place either. It’s too much of a risk._

_“_ My parents are hosting this thing—the house will be full of people by now. We can’t stay at mine, _”_ Armie lies, folding his arms in front of his chest.

Sighing deeply, Timothée looks around. They’re standing in the middle of the almost empty parking lot.

“Then I say we go and sit beneath that tree over there,” Timothée says, pointing over at the lawn that is usually packed with students. Right now, it’s empty. It’ll have to do.

“Fine,” Armie says, already walking towards the tree. _Let’s get this over with._

* * *

“Dude, your hair,” Armie says, flicking a curl out of his vision.

“Sorry, sorry,” Timothée says, scooting about two centimeters to the left. 

_-“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we’d be, if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times.-_

“You’re breathing too loud,” Timothée whines.

“I am literally breathing as loud as you are,” Armie snaps. _This isn’t working at all._

“Then stop doing it right into my ear!”

“I’m not! I’m looking down at the book, which by the way, I can barely see with your head in the way!” Armie can feel his pulse rising. This is ridiculous.

_-“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting---”-_

“Can I turn the page now?” Timothée asks, his voice impatient.

“No, you cannot,” Armie barks.

_“—fretting all the time, in spite of their--”_

An impatient sigh cuts off Armie again.

“Jesus Christ I can’t do this anymore,” Armie says, moving to a seated position.

“You’re the one with the breathing-” Timothée begins,

“And you’re the one with hair all over the place, sighing like an impatient bitch, who are you even?” Armie snaps.

“Maybe we should just read out loud to one another, then we’d finish a lot faster,” Timothée suggest, moving to a sitting position too.

“Fine, you start,” Armie says, his patience running thin. _Maybe Timothée isn’t the only impatient bitch around here? – shut up._

It actually works. The reading out loud, that is. Well, it takes a couple of tries, Timothée needs to find a rhythm, Armie needs to find a comfortable position.

At first, he leans on an elbow, plucking at the grass while listening to Timothée. (He’s not going to admit it but having Timothée’s voice supplement the story actually makes it a lot more interesting than the first time he read it.)

When he starts to get a prickling feeling in his fingers, his arm feeling completely dead, Armie shifts his position. Laying on his back, starring up at the rustling leaves of the tree, Armie lets the world around him fade away.

Timothée is sitting crisscrossed right beside him, leaning his back against the tree. His voice silvery and smooth, washing over Armie’s ears. The breeze is soft, the grass tickling his palms and reminding him of childhood summers. Watching the fluffy skies move across the blue background, Armie feels calm. When his eyes slip shut, he’s zoned completely in on Timothée’s voice and he’s safe. Floating, but safe.

“Armie-” Something soft and cool is touching his hand, and it’s defiantly not the grass.

“What?” he grunts, eyes flying open.

“You fell asleep, man,” Timothée says.

“Sorry, sorry—just, keep going, I’m listening,” Armie says, pulling himself up.

 _This is exactly what he warned himself about. Don’t close your eyes,_ Armie thinks to himself as Timothée continues reading.

* * *

They end up staying out until the sun starts to set. It’s right after Jo and Laurie stand on the hill, Laurie telling Jo that he loves her, when Timothée closes the book, says, “alright, no more of that today,” letting himself fall down on his back next to Armie.

Turning his head to the side, Armie feels something warm spreading inside of his chest. Timothée has screwed his eyes shut, his face taught in a tight frown. He’s clearly trying not to cry _again._ Armie knows that he shouldn’t be staring at him. Should just get his ass moving, go home. Should at least make a snarky comment about Timothée being a wimp, a sissy. But he doesn’t.

What he does instead, is much worse.

He reaches out a tentative hand. Places it on top of Timothée’s that is currently balling itself up in a tight fist. It sends sparks all the way up his arm. Timothée keeps his eyes shut, but his face relaxes when Armie squeezes his hand.

“You know it’s just fiction, right?” Armie says softly.

“Shut up man,” Timothée laughs, his face breaking into a grin. Then, he turns his hand around, palm up. Holds Armie’s bigger, warmer hand in a tight hold for a second, before letting go. It feels like getting a taste of being wanted.

Getting to his feet, Timothée puts the book in his bag, reaches out a hand towards Armie. “We should get home. It’s getting late.”

Shaking out of it, Armie stands up without the help of Timothée’s hand. Dusts himself off, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Yeah. You think your parents will be home by now?” Armie asks.

For a second, Timothée’s face pulls into a frown, his eyes darting around before he shakes his head, says, “yeah, uhm, they are.” 

* * *

When Armie gets home, he feels tired. Not in the drained way he usually does. His body feels lax, his mind is mostly quiet. It kind of feels like coming home from a good day.

That’s probably why he hasn’t noticed the time. It’s ten thirty, making it thirty minutes past his school night curfew. It’s probably why he doesn’t think about it when he slams the front door shut, chucking off his shoes.

So, he shouldn’t be surprised at what happens next. He shouldn’t but he is, and that makes it so much worse.

“Where do you think you’re going?” It’s the voice of his father. It’s calm and cold. It makes a chill run down Armie’s spine, his whole body freezing. _It’s been a long time—it could mean one of two things—_

“To my room, sir,” Armie says. Swallows when he feels his father moving up behind him.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy.”

Turning around, Armie braces himself when he sees his father’s face. _He’s mad._

“Where have you been?”

“At school, sir, working on a proj--” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a palm makes contact with his face. He isn’t ready, even though he should’ve been. It results in his neck snapping to the side, his tongue getting caught between his teeth.

The stinging on his face and the taste of blood filling his mouth makes his eyes water. _He should’ve been prepared._

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Now go to your room. I don’t want to look at your face anymore.”

Armie doesn’t even look at him. Just walks straight towards the stairs, clenching his jaw so tight he fears it might pop.

This is what he gets for letting his guard down. This is what he gets for being happy. What he gets for entertaining his filthy tendencies.

Armie doesn’t sleep that night. He cries silently, cursing his brain for trying to find solace in the memories of Timothée’s voice, his hands, his laugh. These are the things that got him here in the first place.


	4. How to stop being gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie considers his choices. Either, he’s miserable for the rest of his life, or, he can try and regulate himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate Armie too much. He's just going through some stuff.  
> Fair warning: ramble in the end notes
> 
> Trigger warning: assault/domestic violence, intense internalized homophobia and misinformation about homosexuality, slight dubcon sexual relations with a minor (she's seventeen, he's eighteen)

Friday morning, Armie is awake before his alarm goes off. He’d rather not run into his father before school, even if that means being at school earlier than necessary.

Pushing back his duvet, he makes his way into the bathroom. Walks right passed the light switch, finding his way to the toilet in the dark. Sitting down, he rubs his eyes with one hand, then holds his face up with his palm, arm resting against his knee as he relieves himself.

Closing his eyes, he lets himself think about the day ahead of him. First, he’s got school. Then, he’s got a shift at the rescue center before he’ll be heading off to Nick’s place. For a second, he wishes that he could just skip school and parties, stay at work all day and cuddle with the dogs. Act as if they’re the only living creatures he’ll have to deal with today. They always manage to make him in a better mood. Maybe it’s because they’re always happy to see him. Maybe, it’s because he feels like he actually makes a difference, being there with them. Or it could be that whatever he tells them, he knows they’ll keep it to themselves. _It’s not like they have a choice_ , he reminds himself.

Opening his eyes, he rips off a piece of toilet paper, daps it against his dick and stands back up. His back feels sore and his shoulder makes a satisfying crack when he flushes the toilet.

Still not turning on the light, he washes his hands. Turns the tap to the absolute coldest possible, before sticking his hands beneath it. Then, he lathers up his hands with soap, before running them under the ice-cold water again, watching the suds wash down the drain. He loves it. Loves the feeling of the cold water rinsing away grime and dirt, making his hands feel clean and fresh. Turning off the tap, he dries his hands half-heartedly, the skin between his fingers still wet when he lets go of the towel.

Feeling a tight knot of anxiety form in his stomach, he reaches for the light switch. _There’s no way around it._ He wishes that he didn’t have to look. Wishes that he could just act as if nothing had happened. Wishes that nothing really had happened. He needs to make sure though, remembers the time when he got the small pink scar on his cheek. _Can’t leave the house like that. Can’t risk people getting suspicious._

Flicking on the light, Armie holds his breathe and squints his eyes, before leaning in towards the mirror. Turns his face up against the spotlight in the ceiling, touching the skin with his fingertips. There’s nothing to see. Thank God. The skin is a little flushed, but nothing that can’t be handled with a cold washcloth. Worst case he’ll just look a little tired. He feared that his cheek would be swollen, angry red, maybe even an imprint of a hand left behind. Not this time, though.

Turning the tap back on, he splashes his face with cold water. Can feel his breath getting caught in his throat the first three times the icy water makes contact with his face, before he relaxes and lets himself enjoy the feeling of gradually awakening more and more.

Getting dressed and brushing his teeth is done with a washcloth pressed against his cheek. It does the job. No one will be able to tell.

Feeling his stomach grumble as he pulls a t-shirt over his head, Armie contemplates having breakfast before leaving. That will mean running the risk of seeing his father. It will defiantly mean sitting through twenty minutes of complete, deafening ignorance from his mother. His mother, who is perfectly aware of the things happening around her, but never says anything. Never, not once, has she stood up for her children when their father couldn’t control his fists. Armie doesn’t know what angers him the most. The violence or the silence. 

Breakfast will have to wait. Maybe he’ll grab something on his way to school. He’ll have to pass the time somehow anyway.

Grabbing his stuff, he slips out of his room, walks as fast and silently possible through the huge house, before he makes it out the front door. Then, he makes his way to his car, half running, half walking. Slams the door closed, making the car rattle, the oversized dices hanging from his rear-view mirror dangling from side to side.

The smell of cigarettes, diesel and his deodorant make him breathe a little slower as he puts on, _I Hate Everything About You_ by Three Days Grace. He knows that he’s being dramatic, that he’s making himself fit perfectly into the angry-teenager stereotype, but so-fucking-what? He is a teenager and he is angry. He’s angry at his parents. He’s angry at his brother who left him behind. He’s angry with himself. So, incredibly soul-wrenching angry.

 _If his parents think that they’re disappointed with him, they should know how disappointed he is with himself. They would be surprised how well they’ve taught him self-hatred. They’d probably be satisfied, too_.

Lighting his first cigarette of the day, Armie grabs the manual handle by his thigh and rolls down the window. He knows that he’ll regret smoking before eating, before having his first coffee, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs the comfort.

The first hit of nicotine is strong, and it feels like its scratching its way all the way down his throat, before it enters his bloodstream, making him momentarily dizzy. He sucks on it again, letting it dangle between his lips as he pulls out of the driveway. The low rumble of his truck disrupting the peace in the slowly awaking neighborhood that mostly consists of huge, white mansions and driveways that could probably fit about two apartment buildings each. It’s a dead-straight area. Everything is spotless, perfect, always ready for inspection. On the outside, everyone would feel safe upon entering this place. Sometimes, Armie has been fooled too. But now he knows for sure that every single house on this road has something ugly going on behind the marble pillars and white fences. Small or big, Armie knows it’s there. Knows what signs to look for. Knows that not every home has seen the things that his own has, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re happy either.

The thing is, these nice neighborhoods comes with a price. That’s what he tells himself, at least. It’s the only thing that makes times like last night make sense.

* * *

He makes it through the day. Drags his ass through practice. Tries not to delve on the weird feeling starting in his stomach, blooming to his chest when he makes his way through day, realizing that he only has one class with Timothée. Tries not to frown deeper than normal when said guy barely talks to him throughout Spanish. _It’s a good thing,_ he tells himself. _He’s finally catching on and fucking off._

He makes it through work too which thankfully takes his mind off of how mute Timothée had been all day, and worst of all, how that had made him feel. _It’s just uncharacteristic – the guy has been spewing bullshit all week and now he doesn’t even feel the need to set Armie’s world on fire? It’s just weird, is all._

It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened the day before. No, Armie hasn’t thought about that at all. Hasn’t thought about the way it had felt to lay beside Timothée, the only sound being the wind and his voice, which, sometimes Armie had a hard time separating.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the way the kid had showed every emotion going through his mind on his face, letting them play out right in front of Armie.

It defiantly does not have anything to do with Timothée squeezing his hand. That would be as stupid as saying that Armie had _missed_ the kid. No, he hadn’t missed him. Because that would entail him being something besides annoyed in the presence of Timothée. It would entail him having been looking forward to seeing the kid. And he hadn’t. _That would be crazy._

At five thirty he sends his mother a text, stating that he’s staying with Nick for the night. Doesn’t mention the party, because that would just be plain stupid.

* * *

Pulling up in Nick’s driveway, Armie shuts off the engine, the car going silent. Only the clicks and groans coming from the engine, the buzzing in his ear from the loud music he’d been listening to remaining.

He really doesn’t feel like emerging himself in a crowd full of people and alcohol right now. On the other hand, he doesn’t feel like being alone tonight either. Would actually prefer just playing PlayStation with Nick. Just doing anything with Nick, really. But Nick is the one throwing this god for saken thing, so if Armie wants to spend time with him, he’ll have to drag his ass in there.

Leaning his head back and sighing, he counts to three. Then, he jumps out of the car, stretches his long limbs and grabs the beers and extra pack of Marlboros from the backseat.

Walking to the front door, Armie pushes the doorbell with his elbow before opening the door and entering the house, not waiting for an answer.

“It’s me!” Armie yells, toeing off his shoes and letting the door fall shut behind him. He’s fairly sure that Nick’s parents aren’t home. Something about them visiting his sister in San Francisco or something. Hence, this “thing” Nick is throwing.

“Upstairs!” Nick yells back.

Making his way towards the kitchen, Armie looks out for signs that Nick’s parents for some reason should be home anyway. Seems like the coast is clear. As he puts down the beer on the kitchen counter, he hears the thundering footsteps of Nick bouncing down the stairs, asking “did you remember to buy beer?”

“Right here,” he answers, leaning against the counter as he pops one of the cans open.

Seeing Nick is probably one of the best things that has happened all day.

Taking in the silent house, meaning that for now, he gets to be alone with his best friend, is defiantly the best thing that has happened all day.

“Thank god,” Nick says, slapping Armie on the shoulder and giving it a squeeze before he grabs a can himself. “I need a smoke,” Nick states, making his way towards the back door leading out to the patio. Slipping on a pair of worn slippers, he throws a look over his shoulder, motioning with his head for Armie to join him. “You coming?”

Humming, Armie follows, slipping on another pair of shoes that defiantly doesn’t fit his size 15 feet, but you know, nothing rarely does anyway. 

* * *

Two hours later, the house is buzzing. Armie is sitting on the couch in the middle of the living room, a tower of empty beer cans on the coffee table and people talking and laughing over the music. He is 99% sure that it’s some kind of Kygo remix, but he might be wrong. It isn’t exactly the kind of thing he’d usually listen to himself.

“Armie, my man!” someone yells. It sounds a lot like one of the idiots he usually hangs around. A second later, his suspicion is confirmed, when a broad hand slams down on his shoulder, shaking him back and forth a couple of times before Ashton is hugging him from behind, his ridiculous mustache tickling his ear. (Armie had told him when he first showed up looking like that. Had told him that he looked ridiculous, then proceeded to ask him how the hell he even managed to grow it, like, the dude just turned 18. It shouldn’t be possible. Ashton had just smacked his fist against Armie’s shoulder, said that Armie shouldn’t talk as long as he drove around that old rattletrap. Armie hadn’t mentioned the mustache since.)

“What’s up, assholes?” Armie grins, grabbing Ashton’s hand in a very manly handshake as Tyler and Henry makes their way around the couch and people, slumping down in the furniture.

“Listen to that dickhead, acting like he didn’t miss us! Tyler says, throwing his arm around Armie. “Did you bring anything good?” Tyler asks, getting comfortable in a rather douche man spread.

“No, ask Nick, he might have something laying around somewhere,” Armie says, taking a swig of his beer.

He’s not really into the whole weed thing. It makes his mind too relaxed, makes it hard to control his mouth. He doesn’t like the risk of it. One night about a year ago, he had admitted to Nick that he didn’t like sleeping alone. Nick had just hummed, squeezed Armie’s thigh as if he already knew this and then proceeded to steer the conversation onto something else. The next morning when Armie had realized what he’d said, he’d been panicking for a second, before remembering that it was just Nick. Nick, who probably already knew. Nick, who would never use anything like that against Armie. But anyway, he had promised himself not to get high around other people again. Who knows what horseshit he might spew next time?

“I’m going to find Nick,” Tyler declares, shooting up from the couch like a Duracell rabbit.

“You guys sure he isn’t high already?” Armie asks, looking at Ashton and Henry.

“Who, Tyler? Dude, he’s always fucking shooting around,” Henry laughs from his seat on the armrest of the armchair across from Armie.

Snorting, Armie leans towards the table and shuffles a deck of cards.

“Anyone up for a game? I need to get this party started,” Armie declares, already splitting cards in three piles.

“Yeah, I’m up,” Henry says, rubbing his hands together. “Ash—hey, Ashton,” elbowing Ashton in the side, almost make him fall down from his armrest, Henry huffs out a breath of air. “You can’t be serious,” Henry says.

“What? A game?” Ashton says, pulling his attention away from the group of people that just entered the room.

“You think you can pull you ass together and focus long enough?” Henry says, his voice teasing.

“Shut up dude, I wasn’t—you know what, just shut up,” Ashton says, folding his arms across his chest as a blush creeps up his face.

“Shut up about what?” Armie asks, eyes darting between Henry and Ashton.

“It’s that girl from school—you know, the Irish one,” Henry says, laughing as Ashton curses and grabs the cards that he’d been dealt.

“Irish? who are you talk--”

“Timmy, you made it man!” Nick’s voice booms, making Armie freeze. _You’ve got to be fucking kidding,_ Armie thinks. (In reality, it takes all of his willpower not to turn around, search the room like a maniac until he finds the kid. It’s as if his body has a mind of if its own when Timothée is anywhere near him.)

Sighing, he kicks Henry in the shin. “You wanna play or what?”

Hissing, Henry rubs his shin, elbows Ashton again and says, “yeah, yeah, you start. Idiot,”

They make it one round, before that Irish accent makes its presence known, right behind Armie. “What are you playing?”

At the same time as Armie grumbles “nothing,” Ashton quips, “up and down the river.”

“Really? That’s my favorite, can I join you guys?” Saoirse asks, already taking up the empty seat between Ashton and Henry. And Armie would’ve defiantly said no, but Ashton is already teaming up with her, willingly letting her take over for him.

“Timmy, you can team up with Armie,” Ashton says, and Armie defiantly contemplates shunning him from the group, because damn, is he being an idiot right now.

“No fair, then I’m the only one alone!” Henry whines.

“Shut up, you always do better than the rest of us anyway,” Ashton says.

Looking up to his right, he sees Timothée standing there, right arm holding onto the left one hanging limb by his side. For the first time, Armie thinks the kid is actually uncomfortable. _Nah, that can’t be it. It would be weird for the motormouth to go quiet now._

“As long as he doesn’t mind,” Timothée says, squeezing in next to Armie. He smells good. Surprisingly masculine, considering the slim blue slacks and loose white blouse he’s wearing. For a moment, Armie is almost positive that he spots a pair of tight, dark nipples through the fabric. Everyone else would’ve looked like a mom in that outfit, but not Timothée. No, he looks like a dream. A dream that is leaning way too close to Armie.

“Since when do you ask nicely?” Armie asks, glaring at Timothée.

“You get what you give, Armie and Ashton was actually being polite. Don’t know if you know the meaning of that concept,” he answers, his voice light but with a bite to it that ignites a fire inside of Armie. _Who knew that you would miss that little shit talking back at you?_

Throwing back what feels like half a beer in one go, Armie effectively shuts his mind up. Slamming the beer back down on the table, he gets the game going again. He’ll just have to try and distract himself from the temptation literally leaning against him.

* * *

Later, when Timothée has declared that he needs a break from the beers, and Armie has made a snarky comment about “ _some of us being lightweight”_ , - which, he should’ve fucking known that Timothée would say something back along the lines of “ _are you seriously making assumptions about my alcohol tolerance based on my body type? You demeaning fuck” -_ and it almost gave Armie a headache, so he gave up on saying anything, just left the couch to fetch a drink from the kitchen. One can only be squeezed against that kid for so long, without losing their shit.

Whatever- later, he finds himself standing in the kitchen, smoking out of the window, a new can of beer opened in his hand, when Saoirse sidles up next to him.

“You’ve got a light?” She asks, leaning towards the window beside him.

She’s still beautiful, he thinks. Maybe he should give her a chance. She doesn’t seem like the type who would bore him, the type that would insist that they cuddle and hold hands all the time.

“Here,” he says, his voice low and raw from smoking and talking too loudly. Sucking on his own cigarette, he looks back out into the dark backyard. Smoking is so much better when you’ve been smashing beers for hours.

“So, Armie. Where are you from originally?” she asks, throwing the lighter back on the counter as her cigarette lights up.

“Uh, the Caymans. How’d you know?” he asks. What are the chances that she figured out by herself that he isn’t born and raised in LA? He’s not like her- doesn’t have a funny accent or anything .

Shrugging, she stares into the dark. “You just don’t look like you feel at home.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She just shrugs again. “Takes one to know one.”

 _U-huh. So, what, it’s just a thing or what? She knows because she’s not from around here too or something?_ Anyway, he’s too buzzed to talk in riddles. Plus, it’ll probably make it easier if he lets her get the feeling that she’s got him figured out. Girls like that.

“Henry says you’re Irish. Thought you were from Scotland or Sweden or something,” he says, flicking his cigarette out the window.

Huffing, she takes a sip of his beer. “Timmy tells me that’s a bad habit of yours- making a lot of assumptions about people”

_Timmy. Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, always Timmy._

Swallowing, he asks her, “what did he tell you?” Then, he pulls out one more cigarette. Good thing he bought an extra package.

“That you grabbed his ass in a club without even introducing yourself first. Gotta admit, I thought that sounded a liiiitlle creepy,” Saoirse says, throwing him a glance.

_Fuck. Of course. How many people did the little shit tell? Fuck._

“You can’t—you can’t go around telling people that,” he says, his hands shaking as he lights his cigarette.

“Telling people what? That you think forgiveness is easier granted than permission?”

“No. Not that, and I don’t, by the way—just. I’m not gay. I like girls,” he says. Sucks so hard on his cigarette that he almost starts coughing. Swallows heavily instead. This isn’t good. If word gets out— _fuck._ He needs to do some damage control.

“Who said anything about being gay, Armie?”

“No one. It’s just- people are rather quick to judge around here and I--”

Snorting, Saoirse cuts him off. “Oh, are they? Timmy was right, you’re fucking priceless.”

Looking at her, Armie doesn’t see anything malicious. Just, the same exasperated bewilderment he sometimes sees on Timothée’s face. _Maybe you should just keep away from this one too- she seems like she might just be the female version of him._ Armie thinks. Then, immediately follows up with, _then why don’t you get a hard on for her?_

“How many people did he tell?” Armie asks. He needs to know. He doesn’t want to, but he needs to.

“About what?” she asks, a glint in her eye. _She’s defiantly the female version of Timothée. Maybe even worse._

“About—about the other night. At the club.” Fuck. His stomach hurts, and it’s defiantly not the beer. He can hold his fucking alcohol, thank you very much.

“Just me,” she says. Looks at him for a long second, before she kills her cigarette on the outside of the windowsill, putting the butt into an empty beer can. “He’s not out to get you, Armie. You know that, right?”

Armie just snorts, plays with his beer can.

“You know, what you did that night— it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t okay, but I think you already know that, so I’ll spare you. But just--” she licks her lip, shifts her weight to the other foot. “—violating yourself is just as bad as violating another person, Armie.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, looking up at her. She seems kind. Like, if he had been younger, much younger, he would’ve wished for his mother to look at him the way she looks at him right now. But that’s just fucked up. He’s stuck with the one he’s got now, and it defiantly won’t help him wishing for his high school buddy to become his _mother._ No, that’s just—fuck. _Guess that expels all plans of seducing her._

“I think you know,” she says. Then, she pushes away from the counter, making her way into the living room.

Inside the living room, Kygo has been substituted for some other bass induced, low beat music that seems to be pretty dance friendly, based on the bodies moving on the makeshift floor.

Standing in a corner, Armie feels a weird sort of déjà vu taking coming over him, as he spots Timothée among the crowd. He’s got his arms above his head, swaying from side to side, eyes closed, and head tilted back. His curls are falling down his back, reminding Armie of a dark waterfall. He can’t take his eyes off of him. No matter how much he wants to ignore the tightening in his chest, he can’t stop himself from starring. He won’t go over there, not this time, he isn’t that stupid. But maybe, if he just hides here, in his dark corner, no one will notice. _Notice what?_ His brain fills in. _Nothing._

Leaning his weight against the wall, Armie cradles his beer in his hand as he watches Timothée move to the beat. Running his hands down his body, swaying to one side, then the other, before he twirls, runs his hands through his hair and smiles. His whole face is smiling, all crooked and beautiful.

Then, suddenly, when Armie least expects him to, Timothée turns his body towards him and looks right at Armie. This time, he’s absolutely sure that he isn’t just seeing things. Is absolutely sure, when Timothée tightens his hands in his hair, his mouth slightly agape. Is sure when he lets his hands slide down, his fingertips brushing his face, his long, impossibly long, white neck, his sternum, across the place where Armie was sure he saw the hint of nipples earlier, before his hands disappear behind him.

Swallowing, Armie feels his mouth run completely dry, his heart speeding up as his blood starts running south. _Walk away,_ he tells himself. _Walk away, while you can. This isn’t good- this is wrong, wrong, wrong._

Letting his eyes run back up Timothée’s body, Armie almost faints when Timothée looks him right in the eye, bites his bottom lip and _winks_ at him. _Fucking winks._ Armie is positive that the temperature must’ve risen to deadly degrees, because it feels like he’s on fire. His blood is singing, his groin burning.

Emptying his beer, he forces his gaze away from Timothée. He needs to calm down.

Looking back up, he honestly expected Timothée to still be there. Maybe even to have moved a little closer. But that’s only because it seems like the thing he would do. Not because Armie wanted him to, no. And Timothée is still in front of him, but now he wishes that he wasn’t.

Because he isn’t alone anymore. He’s intertwined with another guy—another guy that Armie has never seen before. Another guy, who has _his_ hands in Timothée’s hair. Who has _his_ tongue down Timothée’s throat. And from here, it looks like Timothée is enjoying it _a lot,_ if the way he’s clutching the guy’s shirt, pressing his body flush against his body, is any indication.

Armie feels sick.

_Fuck this. Fuck this party. Fuck his screwed-up brain, his sick and twisted desires. Fuck Timothée._

Scanning the crowd, Armie jumps into action. Does the thing he should’ve done a-long-fucking-time ago. He searches the room until he spots a girl, sitting alone on the couch, eyes swimming and drink in her hand. Deep down, he knows that this isn’t any different than what he did to Timothée less than a week ago. Knows that it’s probably worse. But he needs it—it’s the only way he can keep himself from going insane.

Abandoning his beer can on a nearby shelve, Armie steers straight towards the girl, shouldering past Timothée and the leech until he’s standing in front of the couch. From here, the girl still seems on the oblivious side of smashed, not the prettiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on, but it’ll have to do. Looking up at him, a smile spreads on her face. _It’ll have to do._

“How come a pretty girl like you is sitting all alone?” he asks, taking a seat next to her. He’s close enough to see her blush, hear her giggle and honestly, the fact that this sleezy pick up line is already doing the job is enough to make all of his alarm bells go off.

Leaning in, he makes sure to use his most sultry, deep voice as he asks, “come dance with me?”

The effect is immediate, not that he didn’t count on that. It usually works.

Pulling her out on the dance floor, he puts his hands on her waist, mostly to stabilize her, because honestly, she seems pretty wobbly. Then, when he thinks he might be in an angle that will enable Timothée to see, he slides his hands down until he’s grabbing her ass. Pulling her body flush against his own, as if he really can’t help himself.

Then, he leans in. Kisses her with all the enthusiasm he can muster. She tastes like red wine and too much willingness. It doesn’t matter, because she’s opening her mouth, letting him lick her tongue. It doesn’t matter that he got hard watching Timothée touching himself, _no, not touching himself – just, running his hands down his clothed body, that’s all it took -_ it doesn’t matter, because when the girl turns around and grinds against his crotch, his dick is still alive enough to accept the stimuli for what it is- stimuli.

Nothing matters, because when the girl – he really should get her name – is taking his hand, pulling him towards a bathroom, he catches Timothée’s eye. He catches his eye, and he grins. Grins, because _fuck you, Timothée. Fuck you for making me miserable, for making me want things I shouldn’t want. For playing me like that. Fuck you, and now watch me leave with a girl. Something you will never be, no matter how hard your body tries._

The feeling of triumph doesn’t last for long, though. It simmers down when he pushes the nameless girl up against the bathroom door, clicking the door shut and locking it. It simmers down when she pushes him towards the toilet, sinks to her knees and fumbles with his belt and zipper. It simmers down when he pushes her hands out of the way, pulling down his pants himself. It simmers down as she fits about half of his cock inside of her mouth. For a second, he’s afraid that his erection will start flagging, because this isn’t hot, or sexy. It isn’t, because the bathroom light is too sharp. The toilet lid is cold against his naked ass and the beat of the music is making it hard to concentrate.

He’s afraid that his dick will go soft, because when he looks down, he sees a drunk girl, a stranger, who looks up at him adoringly, and he realizes that he might’ve seen her before. That she might’ve been one of the girls that kept coming to the aftergame parties last year. Who kept cheering from the sidelines, and he never really thought too much about her. Never got her name, and now here she is, drunken out of her mind, on her knees with his cock in her mouth.

He almost feels like crying. Maybe throwing up. _What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?_

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he pushes her back, making her pull off his cock.

“Don’t you like it?” she asks, her voice vulnerable. _Fuck._

“No, it’s just- I never got you name,” he says, voice thick.

“Annabelle,” she says. “My name’s Annabelle.” This time, she gives him a small, shy smile, her hand still wrapped around his cock.

“Oh. Annabelle—I’m A--”

“—Armie, I know,” she says, cheeks red, eyes shining with something Armie can’t make himself decipher. Then, she puts her mouth back on his cock. Sucks it for about two seconds before the regret filling Armie’s stomach is too much.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, his voice a little higher pitched than intended, making her pull off again.

She bites her lip, her eyes flicking around the room before she shrugs. Gives him a shy smile and shakes her head. _Well, that makes two of us, but fuck. He can’t do this._

“Uh, I think I might’ve smoked too much tonight--” he starts, gently pulling his now flaccid cock out of her hand, putting it back into his pants and zipping up. He didn’t even get near any weed, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah- yeah, o-of course,” she stammers, her cheeks now a flaming red, her eyes welling up. _Shit, crap. Now he’s made her cry, for fucks sake._

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” he says, taking a seat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall. “I just don’t think I can, you know--” _I’d rather swallow my pride than face my father with a lawsuit against my throat. How old is she even?_

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms when her bottom lip starts trembling. Pulling her into a hug, he starts rubbing his hands up and down her arms.

“How old are you?” he asks. _Better to be prepared than getting a nasty surprise,_ he figures.

“I uh- I turned seventeen last week,” Annabelle sniffles. _Holy hell. She’s a fucking minor. He’s basically let a sixteen-year-old suck his dick._

“Oh. Uh- congratulations. On that--” Armie croaks, his throat feeling dry.

Turning her face upward, looking at Armie, Annabelle lets go of a chuckle.

“You don’t have to worry—I know you’re eighteen, but I’m not gonna tell anyone. I wanted to myself,” she says. And Armie wants to believe that this makes everything fine, he really does. Knows that she’s probably right – that she’s probably one of those sophomores or freshmen that lay in their childhood bedrooms and fantasies about the hot seniors. But he can’t help but feel like he took advantage of her. That he chose her specifically because she looked smashed and lonely. _That’s because you did, you bastard. Timothée would kill you if he knew,_ he thinks to himself. _Fuck Timothée._

He’s about to say something, when suddenly, Annabelle turns sickenly pale, her hands flying towards her mouth as she starts scrambling towards the toilet. She all but makes it in time, before she starts throwing up, her body heaving in a way that looks fucking uncomfortable. Armie feels so god damned bad. Pulling her hair back, rubbing her back, he tries to make up for what he did. _She’s drunk out of her mind._

When she’s done, he rummages around the cabinets in the bathroom, until he finds a couple of aspirin and a cup that looks mostly clean. Fills it with water and gives it to Annabelle who still looks white as a sheet, her skin glistening with sweat.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, making her lean back against the wall.

He doesn’t really know how to get her home, though. He’s way too drunk to drive her himself. Figures that the rest of the party is too. For a minute, he contemplates going through the contacts in her phone, call her parents or something. Then again, he doesn’t know her folks at all, and it might backfire.

He ends up calling a cab. Waits outside with her, figuring that maybe some fresh air will do her good. She’s shivering though, and when hugging her close doesn’t do the job, he ends up giving her his jacket. Kisses her hair when she starts crying. _Jesus Christ, this might actually be her first-time drinking,_ he thinks. _How did you even end up going from shoving you dick down her throat, to acting like her older brother in less than an hour?_ When the cab shows up, he helps her buckle in and makes sure to give the driver her address.

Then, he makes his way back inside the house.

He doesn’t look for the guys, defiantly doesn’t look for Timothée. He looks for Nick, finds him on the porch with Henry.

“Mind if I stay here for the night?” he asks him.

Looking up at Armie, Nick furrows his eyebrows, says, “yeah, of course.”

“Thanks man,” Armie answers. Smacks his palm against the door frame twice and makes to leave.

“Hey, Armie--” Nick says.

“Yeah?”

“Is everything alright?”

Smoothing his face into a smile that probably doesn’t reach his eyes, Armie says, “sure, why wouldn’t it be? Just tired, is all.” Then, before Nick can say anything more, he makes his way through the kitchen, turning the corner towards the staircase.

He almost knocks himself flat on his ass though, when he collides with another body. A slim body that would’ve defiantly lost its balance if Armie hadn’t reached out a hand, catching it.

“Fuck, sorry--” Armie begins, while looking up. Looking up and starring right into green eyes and flushed cheeks. A jolt of electricity goes through his body, his heart jumping into his throat. He lets go of Timothée as if he’d been burned and takes a step back.

“Armie,” Timothée says, his voice sounding tired and raw. _There’s more than one bathroom in this house, you know,_ Armie thinks to himself.

“Armie, wait-” he calls again, when Armie starts to leave.

“What?” he snaps.

“I- I was looking for you,” Timothée says, his face pulled into a frown.

“I’ve been right here all the time,” Armie says, folding his arms across his chest. He doesn’t know why he waits for Timothée to say something. He should just leave.

“Huh- that’s, that’s funny, because I looked for you for like, the past hour and Tyler said he saw you with a girl and-” Timothée begins, but Armie doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to listen to Timothée accusing him of anything, when Timothée was the one making Armie feel like shit. When Timothée is the devil that likes to play with Armie, acting like he’s some sort of play toy, put on earth to entertain him. He doesn’t want to think about the reasons why Timothée might’ve been looking for him.

Armie doesn’t wait for him to finish, just heads towards the stairs, then starts to climb them resolutely. He really doesn’t want to talk to Timothée.

“For fucks sake, Armie, would you just-” then, Timothée’s voice is drowned out by the sound of the door slamming.

Nick’s room is dark, cool and mostly quiet. It’s exactly what he needs, as he strips down to his boxers and t-shirt before getting under the covers. The bed smells of Nick, which, to Armie equals safety. It’s everything he needs to fall asleep. That, and the beer. Because let’s be real, if he had been at home, in his own bed, the events of this night would’ve haunted him and kept him awake the whole night.

* * *

When Armie wakes up the next morning, the room is quiet, save for the light snoring sounds emitting from Nick who lies beside Armie in the bed. Scooting a little backwards, Armie feels his back pressing up against Nick’s. He’s warm and solid, and when Armie closes his eyes again, he feels calm. Calm and warm and sleepy.

He’s almost back to sleep when Nick makes a sudden jerk in his sleep, causing him to heave in a sudden breath, effectively startling them both awake.

“Dude,” Armie murmurs, his lips smashed against the pillow.

“What the- shit, sorry” Nick says, wildly turning his head from side to side, trying to orientate himself before he falls back down on the pillow again.

“Did you fall down?” Armie asks, turning around on his back.

“Yeah. Ugh, shit it felt real,” Nick says, rubbing his eyes as he starts laughing quietly by himself.

Even though the bed is queen sized, it still doesn’t leave much space for the two of them. Their bodies are touching from toe to shoulder and Armie feels warm. The kind of warm where you instinctively want to burry yourself in the heat source just to feel more of it. For a second, he feels an overpowering need to throw himself across Nick’s body and be held by him. _That sounds pretty fucking gay if you ask me._

Needing some distance, Armie throws off the duvet, turns on his side so that he’s facing Nick as he says, “fuck man, you feel like a fucking furnace.”

“Who, me? You’re the one with all the clothes on man,” Nick says casually. It makes Armie freeze for a second. _What_?

“What are you talking about? Of course, I’m wearing clothes, I’m not fucking disgusting.”

He gets out of bed. Starts pulling on his pants, ignoring the weird look Nick gives him.

“Dude, what the hell? We always sleep like this,” Nick says, his voice sounding confused.

“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t,” Armie says, trying to locate his socks. “It’s weird and it might give someone the wrong impression--” _there it is._

Sitting down at the edge of the bed, he pulls on his left sock.

“What impression, Armie?” now Nick is moving out of the bed too, a frown on his face.

Swallowing, Armie casts him a glance while pocketing his phone.

“You know—the wrong one,” he shrugs.

He doesn’t know what else to say. This sleeping arrangement isn’t something new between them. They’ve slept in the same bed a thousand times. There’s never been anything to it. When they were kids, they slept in the same bed to protect each other against the monsters, whisper about childhood fantasies after the lights went out. When they got older, they were still afraid of monsters and crazy ladies from movies they shouldn’t have watched, and even though they never admitted it, they both knew. And now, they sleep in the same bed because it’s a rare comfort that they can’t find anywhere else. But now, Armie might’ve put that to an end with his crazy paranoia.

If Nick is a little hurt right now, he understands. Because he is too, however complicated that is.

“Alright,” Nick sighs, spreading his arms out before letting them fall down, hanging limp by his sides. “If- if it makes you more comfortable, then fine.” He doesn’t really sound completely fine, even though he gives Armie what he supposes is meant to be a comforting smile.

“Cool,” Armie says, standing from the bed and leaving the room. _Cool._

* * *

They spent the morning cleaning the house and eating breakfast. Armie feels less hungover than he excepted. He’s probably gotten more of a moral hungover than an actual hungover, but who cares, it makes him feel equally as sick. Nick steers clear of his path, makes sure not to touch him and he doesn’t talk as much as he usually does. It ticks Armie off. He fucking hates it when people tiptoe around him like that. And the worst thing is, he asked for it himself. He literally told Nick to take a step back, and now that he has gotten his way, he feels pissed-off by it.

Werether it’s due to Nick just accepting Armie pushing him away without putting up a fight, or the tiptoeing around, Armie doesn’t know, but it makes his jaw tighten, his eyebrows pulling together so hard he fears it might give him a headache. 

* * *

Coming home, Armie heads straight for his room. It’s fairly easy, seeing as Saturday afternoon is usually occupied with golf and socialization regarding his parents. Once inside his room, he locks his door and strips out of his clothes. He needs a shower. Maybe a nap later, but defiantly a shower.

Once inside the shower, he tries to relax his shoulders. Tries to let the steaming water wash away his thundering mind and the coiling pain in the pit of his stomach. The only thing he achieves is pink skin and pruney fingers. Giving up on calming his mind, he shuts off the water. Grabs his towel and runs it over his hair, making it stand up in hundred different directions, before he leans down and dries off his legs.

While bending down, he comes eye to eye with his own dick and balls. It’s all just hanging there, dripping with water. A thought crosses his mind, and it makes the tight pain in his stomach even worse. _I wish I wasn’t born like this._ What is that even supposed to mean? Standing upright again, he tries to erase the thought from his mind. But it’s difficult and it feel like it’s etching itself into his brain, growing bigger and bigger until it’s roaring at him, making it impossible to ignore.

 _If I wasn’t born like this, I could kiss and love who I really wanted to._ He swallows heavily while aggressively rubbing the towel on his arms.

_If I wasn’t born with a dick, my parents would be proud of me for bringing boys home. I wouldn’t have to kiss girls, I wouldn’t have to have sex with someone I don’t feel attracted to, I wouldn’t have to hate myself. My father would be proud of me, my mother would love me—I could kiss Timothée—_

His thoughts are running a hundred miles per hour. It feels like he’s spiraling.

_Is this how transgender people feel? Can you even be gay and transgender at the same time? Am I transgender? Do I want to be a girl? Fuck, what if, what if—_

Feeling the room start to spin, Armie slides down on the bathroom floor, his face between his hands as his chest starts to tighten, his breath coming out in short puffs.

He needs to calm down, regain some control.

_I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not gay. I like girls and I’m a man. I’m a man, I’m a man, I’m a man._

He sits like that, chanting to himself until his breathing has calmed down, his vision clearing again.

Wiping at his eyes, he takes a couple of deep breathes. Looks around the room, feeling his senses kick back in.

_That was pretty bad._

Standing back up, he wraps the towel around his hips and makes his way to his dresser. Pulls out a pair of boxers and pulls them on quickly beneath the towel. He doesn’t want to look at himself, fears it’ll trigger him again.

Having dressed and tossed his wet towel, Armie walks around his room, trying to find something that will keep him busy for the rest of the night. He fears that if he just sits down with nothing to occupy his brain with, he’ll go fall down a hole once again. It’s only two in afternoon. That’s a lot of hours to pass until bedtime. 

At first glance, his room doesn’t look like it contains much. It’s big, with tall, barred windows facing the backyard. It’s fairly isolated from the rest of the house, his mother’s and father’s bedrooms being in the other end of the house. They don’t sleep together. Haven’t done that since Armie was conceived, as far as he is concerned. Something about God and not sharing a bed unless it’s for reproductive purposes or something. Armie is sure it’s what’s best for everyone though. This way, his father gets to bring back women without the inconvenience of finding a hotel, while his mother can stay faithful to her beloved God. Everyone is happy. Plus, this way he gets to have one of the good rooms and he does appreciate the light and the privacy.

Well, it’s not a very personal, his room. It’s clean, the walls painted in a light blue, so light it almost looks white when the light is just right. His bed is always made, and he knows that if he doesn’t do it himself before taking off in the morning, someone else will have done it before he gets back home. He prefers to do it himself, though. Doesn’t need anyone snooping around in his shit.

In some ways, his room represents his personality quiet well. It’s clean cut, perfectly organized and neat. All the private stuff is hidden away in shoeboxes and corners.

Slouching down in his desk chair, he flips the lid on his laptop up. Hits the power button twice before realizing that it’s dead. Sighs and smacks the lid closed again. He doesn’t even know what to do with it anyway. Homework is off the table, he can’t concentrate.

Then, he stands back up and stares out of the window. He could go for a run. But then again, no. He literally just took a shower and he still feel worn out from last night.

Turning around, he looks at his closet. _Maybe reading a book would be nice._

Yes, reading it is.

Flipping the light switch on the wall, he makes his way to the back of the closet. Pulls a small curtain aside and scans the shelves. He’s very aware that storing your books in the back of your closet is a little odd, but he’s got his reasons. To him, they represent something private, something personal. He loves reading, to him, it’s this sort of sacred sanctuary where he can be who he wants to be. 

So, he keeps his books hidden. Doesn’t want anyone telling him what literature is appropriate and what is not. If his mother knew that he’d been reading _Death in Venice_ as a fourteen-year-old, she would’ve sent him off to boarding school, of that he is sure. He doesn’t even look at that book anymore, though. It’s too confronting. Running his fingers over the spines, he stops for a second when he spots his copy of _Anna Karenina._

_No, not that one either._

He ends up grabbing _The Little Prince._ He could use something easy to digest.

He makes to chapter eight before he gives up on concentrating anymore. His mind is constantly zooming in on something Timothée related. If it isn’t the word _prince_ that makes him think of the kid, then it’s the rose, and if it isn’t something in the book, then it’s the afternoon where he and Timothée had been reading outside of the school. It feels like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been two days. Maybe it’s because he had felt happy, that day and now, he feels miserable. Maybe it’s really just because his mental state of mind is as far away from that day as it is.

Sighing, he closes the book and stares out of the window. _Maybe he should find another strategi. Clearly, this denial thing isn’t working. Who is he even kidding? He’s wanted the kid since he first lay eyes on him. It’s just a fact. So, maybe he isn’t completely straight. Maybe he’s got some tendencies, maybe he’s just getting sidetracked. There must be a mean for that, right? Maybe he just needs to grab the bull by its horns and be more solution oriented._

Getting off the bed, Armie fetches his charger from his backpack and powers up his computer.

While waiting, he can feel his stomach churning. Clicking on his web browser, he makes sure to go incognito, before he starts typing in the search bar, his hands clammy and shaking.

_How to stop being gay._

He doesn’t really know what he expects. Maybe some blogposts about how it’s not something you need to be cured from. Maybe he expects to be told that he needs help. (Once, he was bored and started asking his Google Home all sorts of shit, like _sing me a song, tell me a story,_ and _I’m lonely._ The latter had resulted in the speaker listing all sorts of places where he could find help.)

The first page he clicks into consists of different statements from people struggling too.

_“I like guys, but I don’t want to be gay – how do I stop being gay?”_

And like, when it’s being put like that, in black and white, Armie knows how ridiculous he is. But it doesn’t change the fact that, this is exactly how he feels.

Scrolling, he finds another one, telling him that he isn’t alone, that he needs to be strong and maybe, someday, he’ll have the courage to come out. He doesn’t want to come out though. He wants to stay the same, he wants to stay Armie.

 _And who is he?_ His brain quips. _Fuck._ He doesn’t know. Just knows that this can’t be it. He can’t be gay, because that will mean that everything, he imagined for his future will be impossible. He won’t be team captain. He will lose all of his friends. His parents will despise him even more. He will never find someone who loves him, because he will never find another man who won’t feel threatened by him. Never find a man that will find him attractive, and what if he will end up as the woman? He doesn’t want to be the mom. What if he only falls in love with masculine men? Will that mean the he’ll have to be the feminine one, the one who takes a cock up his ass? He can’t do that. At least, he doesn’t think he wants to. He will never have children, a family. He will become a lonely fairy.

_He can’t be that guy._

Another page tells him that conversational therapy might help, but that in some cases, it has done more damage than good. It also says that he might be able to stop being gay if he just gathers enough willpower, is strong enough to withstand temptation.

Starring at his desktop, Armie considers his choices. Either, he’s miserable for the rest of his life, or, he can try and regulate himself.

Maybe he should ask for help? Find one of those therapists. Just the thought of it makes a chill run down his spine. He’s heard enough nasty stories about people being admitted to psychiatric wards for being gay and coming out as limb vegetables. Then again, what if it can help him go back to normal? But who can he ask? Certainly not his parents. He learned that at a quiet early age. _Don’t ask mom and dad for help – no matter how scared you are. It’s better to let it pass._

Sighing, he rubs his face with his hand. He can’t make a plan on an empty stomach.

As he makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, he’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t notice his parents being home.

He just makes a straight beeline for the fridge, pulling out the ingrediencies for a sandwich, his mind going in circles about last night as he prepares his food. He thinks about Annabelle and sends a small prayer that the girl is alright. Then, he thinks about Nick and immediately steers his thoughts onto another topic when he feels regret starting to make itself present. He thinks about Timothée. About the way it had felt to sit close on the couch, how relieved he had been when he had been a bratty asshole again. He thinks about how beautiful he had been, how he had wanted to devour the kid right then and there. Thinks about the nausea he had felt when Timothée had kissed another guy.

As he spreads a layer of mayo on his bread, he wonders why Timothée had been looking for him.

Then he remembers his conversation with Saoirse.

_Violating yourself is just as bad as violating another person._

Almost dropping the knife in the glass of mayo, Armie feels the penny drop.

_What the fuck is he doing? He can’t stop being gay (even if he doesn’t think he really is gay)._

Squashing the rest of the sandwich together, he all but throws the rest of the ingrediencies back into the fridge, before bouncing back upstairs. 

He makes it to the doorstep of his room before he freezes, realizing that his parents must’ve come home while he was locked up in his room.

Standing by the desk, is his father. His father, who’s face is pulled in a tight grimace, the tic of his eyelid telling Armie that now might be a good time to make a dash for it. He doesn’t though, just stands there. Raking his brain for all the things he might’ve done to enrage his father; he comes up with nothing.

Until his eyes land on his computer. _Bingo._ The screen is bend further backwards than Armie had left it, and judging by the look on his father’s face, Armie didn’t close the tabs before leaving his room.

_You idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

“Care to explain what this is?” his father demands, pointing at the laptop.

Swallowing the bile in his throat, Armie locks his jaw.

“I-I don’t know, Sir.”

“You don’t know? Are you stupid, boy? Now, let me ask you one more time. What is this?”

“It’s—uh, I’m just—it’s nothing, I promise,” he stammers. Now, Armie knows he’s made a mistake. Multiple mistakes, actually.

Number one: letting his guard down and leaving his private stuff out in the open.

Number two: not giving his father the answer that he wants (Armie rarely knows the right answers, but he does know that this is important.)

Number three: sounding like an insecure girl (this one never seizes to make his father angry.)

Slamming the laptop shut, his father takes six long strides until his standing mere centimeters away from Armie.

“I’ll tell you what it looks like. It looks like my son is turning into a pussy. A nasty, stammering queer pussy.”

“I swear to God I’m not--” Armie begins, before he’s cut off by a slap across his face. This time, his jaw is locked tight, his tongue still in place.

“Don’t misuse his name, faggot,” and it almost sounds like his mother as a punch lands in Armie’s stomach, making the air blow out of his lungs, throwing him off balance. His plates clatters to the ground.

“Do you have any idea what this will do to your mother?” A knee lands in his gut. Panic strikes Armie as he registers the pain. He’d rather take it in the ribs, knows that it’ll make a lesser chance of severe damage.

“Please,” Armie croaks, bending over.

“What was that? You being a whiny pussy?” A hand yanks his hair, pulling his head backwards in an uncomfortable angle. He fears for a second that it’ll leave a bald spot as white-hot pain shoots across his scalp.

“No Sir,” Armie groans. Everything hurts.

“If I ever find out that you’ve been near any of that nasty shit again, I’ll make sure to personally beat the gay crap out of you, you hear me?” his father sneers. _If only it was that easy,_ Armie thinks. His father’s breath fanning over Armie’s face, spit landing on his chin. It smells like whisky and cigars.

Nodding, Armie musters up all of the energy he can, says, “yes sir,” before slumping down on the floor, the tight grip in his hair letting go.

He stays on the floor until he can’t hear his father’s footsteps anymore. Then, he gets up on shaky legs. Pushes the door closed and locks it. Puts his food back on the plate and places it on his desk. It’s going to be the only thing he eats for the rest of the day. His heart is beating so hard he can almost hear his own pulse in his ears. His hands are shaking, his vision clouding over with physical evidence of the heartbreak that follows when the one person who’s supposed to love you, doesn’t.

Limping into the bathroom he lets the water run icy-cold in the sink before he drenches a washcloth in it. He needs to avoid bruises and swelling as much as possible.

He’s on full autopilot as he presses the cold cloth against his skin and holds it there for the next twenty minutes. He doesn’t think as he carefully dabs ointment on his sore skin. His mind is completely blank, his body numb. He’s been here before.

It’s not until he’s done, that he feels the prickling behind his eyes, the lumb in his throat. No matter how many times he’s been here, it doesn’t stop the feeling of iron bands squeezing his heart. He’s a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, not knowing if he’s angry or confused. Angry, because _fuck his father. Fuck his whole family for doing this to him, for being so sick. Fuck himself for being so sick, for bringing this upon himself._ Confused, because _what did I do to make them hate me? Am I really that unlovable? I wish I had different parents._ The latter thought is immediately followed up with the awful, genetically inherited feeling of regret for wishing that his parents didn’t exist.

He wishes that his heart could reduce them to nothing but the slimy cold bastards that they are. That he could fully see them as the pretty façade and trust fund that they’ve been functioning as for most of his life. But no matter how hard he tries, his heart always nurtures the small, desperate hope that someday, his father will hug him instead of hitting him.

That someday, his mother will stop using the bible as a filter to view him through. That she would ask him about his day and actually care. That she would stand between him and all the evil things out there. But it’s a stupid waste of time. It hasn’t been like that since he was a toddler. 

Putting his shirt back on, he breathes through his nose as he walks into his closet. Pulls out the copy of _Anna Karenina_ and crawls beneath the covers. He starts at page one, even though he’s read a thousand times before. It still does the trick though, as he lets the memory of his grandmother’s voice read the words aloud. It makes his pulse calm down; his mind shutting off.

He lays there for hours, eyes running over worn pages, memorized words, as the sun sets. His room is completely dark, save for his bedside lamp, when his phone starts ringing. It startles him, his heart almost jumping out of his chest, before he realizes that the sound is coming from his jeans pocket laying in the laundry basket. Pulling out the device, he squints at the screen flashing Timothée’s name at him.

_Why the hell is he calling?_

Pulse going crazy, Armie accepts the call.

“Armie,” he says.

“No, it’s Timothée,” _oh, the little shit has humor._

“Cut the crab man, why are you calling me?” Armie asks. He’s not in the mood for Timothée´s witty mouth. His brain isn’t alert enough to handle it.

“I’ve been texting you all day, you never answered.” _No, because my phone has been the last thing of my mind. That’s what happens when your dad beats you up._

“Well, I’ve been busy,” Armie says, getting back into bed. His stomach still hurts. Half of it from his father’s fist, the other half from the tight coil of nerves that balls up every time Timothée is close.

“Uhuh- that’s the only explanation I could dig up too,” Timothée says, and Armie can almost hear the grin in his voice. It’s almost nice.

“What did you want, Timothée?”

“You know, it’s funny how you insist on calling me that. You could just call me Timmy, or Tim. I’ll go by whatever you like,” Timothée says. This time, Armie can defiantly hear him smiling. It’s annoying how contagious it is.

“Just cut to the chase, will you?” Armie has to bite the inside of his cheek in order not to let a smile take over his whole face.

“Alright, alright, I just wanted to ask you if you want to meet up tomorrow?” (No, Armie didn’t feel his stomach doing summersaults right there.) “You know, to finish the book before Monday.” _Oh, that’s right. The book._

“Uuh—yeah, we can do that,” Armie says, trying to feign nonchalance.

“Ugh, thank God. I was afraid you’d be too busy” Timothée jokes, Then, “same time and place as last time?”

“Yeah, same time and place,” Armie says, smiling into his fist.

“Just FYI, it’s your turn to read aloud this time,” Timothée informs him. _What a shame._

“Figured you’d say that.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, the only sound being Timothée’s breathing.

“About last night--” Timothée says, and Armie feels a zing of panic go through his body.

“Please, can we just—forget about it? Nothing happened and like, it’s fine, really--” Armie says, and like, he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about because he has no idea what Timothée wants to tell him, but he just can’t deal with it right now. He’s 99% sure that it’s going to be about something he isn’t ready to face yet.

“You sure?” Timothée breathes. All traces of smiles and jokes completely gone.

“Yeah,” Armie says, praying that he isn’t agreeing on something stupid.

There’s a silence again, and this time, Armie feels like this is where he should hang up before he gets himself into trouble. Before he listens too intently to Timothée’s breathing, before he falls asleep with the kid on the phone. _Don’t close your eyes around him._

“Did you want anything else?” Armie asks.

“Uhm, no. Don’t think so,” Timothée answers. _Armie is defiantly not disappointed in this. Nope, not at all._

“Goodnight, Timothée,” Armie says, his voice quiet as if they’re right next to each other, on the brink of sleep.

“Goodnight. See you tomorrow.” Timothée´s voice is equally as quiet and Armie needs to sternly pull the phone away and press the red bottom.

With his book by his pillow and Timothée’s voice echoing in his ears, Armie falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was challengin in a whole other way than some of the others have been, and I guess it's because of what Armie's dealing with. Now, I am not transgender myself, so I can't really speak for people who's been through or are going through the stages in that sort of process, but I do know how it feels to deal with anxiety and a newfound sexuality and not knowing who to talk to, despite my family being loving and accepting. So, I guess what I'm trying to say with this chapter is, that anxiety isn't rational, violence is never acceptable, sexuality isn't chosen, and none of the above are something to be shameful about. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments <3


	5. One of a kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being around Timothée feels like constantly walking a very thin line and slipping half the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, these two idiots seem to be getting along! Or like, getting somewhere at least. They're still very much idiots.   
> Enjoy! please and thank you.

Pulling up by the school, Armie can see Timothée leaning against the parking sign in the spot where he usually parks. His jeans are hanging low on his hips, the sleeves of his sweater pulled up, bunching by his elbows. Armie has to swallow at the sight of pale forearms covered in a thin layer of dark hairs. The hands that are stuffed halfway into the front pockets of the jeans look way bigger than they should, compared to the rest of Timothée’s body. 

In a flash, Armie can picture one of those hands, splayed out, the inside pressed against Armie’s own. How much bigger would Armie’s be?

Shaking his head, Armie puts on his sunglasses and his best frown.

Pushing away from the sign, Timothée gestures at Armie’s car.

“You do know that the polar bears will be extinct in less than a hundred years, right?”

“I thought we were studying for English today,” Armie grumbles, trying to lock his car.

“Do you know that there’s people, children, dying of starvation in underdeveloped countries because of droughts breaking out outside of season?”

Armie is aware that the kid is talking, but the lock in his car is jamming (it does that sometimes, and he prefers not being violent towards his car, because he adores the thing.)

Turning the key back and forth a couple of times, he gives up and pulls it out of the lock.

“And, given the place that we live, it’s more than likely that one day, it’s your house that burns to the ground because of a forest fire, and that will be your own fault,”

Opening the car door, Armie mumbles an apology to his car before he slams the door shut violently enough to make Timothée pause in his rant.

“Did you even hear about the temperatures rising? The coral reefs dying—did you see that documentary with the walruses on the cliffs, plunging straight into their own deaths? How do you live with that?”

Jamming the key back into the lock, Armie finally succeeds in locking up his car.

Jerking his head to the side, he tries to make a strand of hair fuck off from his face. It’s been tickling the place between his eyebrows for the past minute, and combined with the parrot chattering beside him, he’s this close to screaming. In a very deep, manly way. Like a dangerous growl. He wouldn’t scream—Timothée probably would, though. _Jesus Christ, Hammer._

Turning around, he finally pays attention to the print on Timothée’s sweater. It says _SOS,_ the _O_ having been replaced with the earth. If this kid turns out to be best buddies with Greta Thunberg, he won’t be surprised.

“Man, will you just shut up?” Armie snaps.

Who the hell is he kidding, this kid doesn’t know what that means.

“Oh, so that’s how you cope? You just shut the whole thing out, act as if it doesn’t exist. What’s next, you telling me that you don’t believe in science? Fucking hell, you’re priceless,”

_What is the kid even on about? Blaming the whole worlds suffering on him? Jesus, he should’ve stayed home. At least there his mother only thinks those things, quietly. Most of the time anyway._

“I literally have no idea what you’re going on about”

“You’re driving in a rust bucket emitting carbon footprints the size of Africa. You’re suffocating the planet every time you take it for a spin around the corner. You’re basically making it impossible to execute the Paris Agreement,” Timothée sputters, his eyes wild and fiery. _What did this string bean have for breakfast? God knows that Armie could use some of it himself on a drowsy day._

“Did you seriously just call my _car_ a rust bucket?” Armie asks, his voice leaving no room for jokes. He won’t stand for this. No fucking way.

“That thing is not a _car,_ it’s an oil barrel on wheels, it’s a threat to our climate, to your own future-”

Adjusting his sunglasses, Armie starts walking towards the tree in a futile attempt to move himself away from this.

“Would you calm your tits? It’s just a car, it’s not like I’m driving around in a steam engine, you climate nut”

“You might as well have! God, sometimes it’s like you’re stuck in the fifties. You don’t know the meaning of consent, you don’t know what a pronoun is, you---”

“I do know what a pronoun is, would you let it rest? And as for the night at the club, I already said I’m sorry,” Armie says, his patience running thin.

“Yeah you know what it is, but you don’t know how to use it—you still haven’t bothered to ask about _my_ pronouns for one,”

Blowing out a puff of air through his nose, Armie spins around and stares at Timothée.

“Alright, then please tell me what they are.”

“It’s he and him, thank you for asking,” Timothée says, the fire in his eyes still flicking dangerously. Armie is afraid that it’s contagious, the feeling of his own blood buzzing a sure sign of his temper about to run amok.

“See, I already knew that,” Armie says, turning around and marching on towards the lawn.

“You just don’t understand anything, do you?” Timothée says, raising his voice.

“I understand that you’re a nuisance, a walking plague, and I defiantly understand that laying eyes on you that night was the stupidest thing I have ever done in my whole life!” Armie explodes. His hand is gripping his car keys so hard that he can feel the metal boring into his skin. If he wasn’t so furious right now, it would’ve defiantly hurt.

“Well then at least we can agree on something!” Timothée shoots back.

They stand like that, starring daggers at each other, fury flaming between them. Armie can feel the muscles in his jaw almost starting to cramp, and it looks like Timothée is out of breath.

Turning on his heel, Armie takes the last couple of steps towards the tree where he throws himself down, legs bent, arms resting on his knees.

A second later, Timothée aggressively makes himself comfortable against the tree trunk. Armie can feel the anger coming off of him in waves.

They sit like that for what feels like half an hour. It helps though, Armie’s pulse quieting down, the screaming in his head ebbing out. He’s momentarily impressed by how much this kid is able to make him feel in just a matter of seconds. He defiantly doesn’t like it.

“Did you bring the book?” Armie grumbles. He’d rather not talk to Timothée for the rest of the day, but they’ve got this stupid ass project. The sooner they can be done with it, the sooner he can ask Mrs. Lawson for a new partner. Preferably Nick. Nick never sets him off like this.

Timothée doesn’t answer, just throws the book at Armie, making the spine bend backwards, one of the pages creasing.

“Careful you moron, this isn’t even ours,” Armie snaps. _Fuck, what is happening to him?_

“Oh, so now I’m the moron?” Timothée asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

_Breathe in. One… two… three… four. Chill the fuck out._

“I just don’t want a fine for a stupid library book just because you’ve got anger issues,”

_Maybe a little more chill next time._

“Will you just read the thing? I’m tired of listening to the crap your brain comes up with by itself.”

So, Armie shuts up. Decides it’s better than snapping back. They’re clearly not getting anywhere.

Flipping the book open, he lands on a random page. Flips back and forth for a moment, trying to remember where they stopped last time. Comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t really remember. Then, tells himself that the only reason why he doesn’t remember, is because he wasn’t the one reading aloud. It’s defiantly not because he was too busy floating around in the voice of Satan himself.

Letting out an annoyed, exasperated huff, Timothée scoots up beside Armie. Pulls the book out of his hands and flips the pages impatiently until he comes to a stop. Thrusts the book back at Armie and points at the first sentence on the page. “There,” Timothée says.

Armie doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat. Rolls his shoulders and tries to even out his breathing. Stares at the words for a full minute before he clears his throat again. Then, he starts reading. The first couple of sentences come out all weird. His shoulders are still tense, his throat all tight. His voice sounds hoarse and the pitch is uneven. Stopping, he clears his throat again. It doesn’t help, the feeling of mucus and tightness still very much there. The fourth time he clears his throat, Timothée pulls out a water bottle from his bag and dumps it between them.

“You’re ruining your vocal chords when you do that. Drink some water and cough for real instead.”

Feeling a weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach, Armie side eyes Timothée. Picks up the water and takes a sip, coughs in his elbow and takes one more sip before he hands the bottle back.

“Thanks,” Armie murmurs.

Timothée just leans back on his elbows and leaves the bottle between them, silently asking Armie to go back to the book.

Armie starts reading again. This time without any discomfort, his voice back to normal.

At some point, Timothée pulls out a cigarette. Puts the stick to his mouth and lights it, plumes of smoke enveloping them both. It reminds Armie how much he craves one himself, but in the turmoil at the parking lot, he forgot his own cigarettes in the car. And fuck if he’s going to ask Timothée for one. No way.

Casting a glance at Timothée, Armie subconsciously brings his hand to his mouth. Then, he attempts going back to reading, all the while nibling at his bottom lip. He makes it three and a half sentences, before Timothée nudges him with the back of his hand. Turning to look at him, Armie furrows his eyebrows, as if asking, _what?_

Holding the cigarette out towards Armie, Timothée just looks at him blankly. At least the rage seems to be gone.

_Oh, thank God,_ Armie thinks, taking the cigarette from Timothée’s outstretched hand. Puts it to his mouth and sucks in a mouthful of smoke. It’s fucking delicious. There’s a slight wetness from where Timothée’s own lips has just been, and Armie can’t stop his own brain from silently pleading for _more._ Blowing out the smoke, Armie lets his thumb caress the place where their lips have just been. Puts the stick back to his lips and sucks on it again while closing his eyes.

Then, he hands it back to Timothée. Tries to be subtle about it when his eyes linger on Timothée’s lips wrapping back around the stick. _Fuck._

They stay like that for hours. Armie reading, Timothée laying on his back. Sometimes passing a cigarette between them, sometimes folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes, a blissful expression on his face.

_Does he think about floating and safety too?_

Mentally cursing himself, Armie abandons that thought and focuses back onto the book.

Closing the book, Armie lays down on his back next to Timothée. Folds his hands on his stomach and wonders if Timothée has fallen asleep. He hasn’t.

“So, what do you think?” Timothée asks.

“About the book? Or about you bawling out your eyes to a sap story?” Armie quips. (Timothée didn’t, he just sniffled a couple of times when Laurie and Amy got married. But who would Armie be if he didn’t seize the chance to piss Timothée off?)

Turning his head to look at Armie, Timothée shoots him a death glare. _Mission accomplished._

“You know, trying to de-masculinize other men for being in touch with their feeling doesn’t automatically make your own balls grow larger.”

“Never I said needed them to,” Armie shoots back, a smirk on his face.

Timothée just snorts. “I bet they’re the size of peanuts, judging by the way you’re acting”

“Oh, really? Wanna see for yourself? Cuz I assure you, they’re not,” _Alright, that might’ve been a bit over the gay-line._

“Dude, please keep your nuts to yourself and tell me what you honestly think about the story. Show me those literary skills you were bragging about,” Timothée says, waving his hand around as if trying to make the picture of Armie’s genitals disappear. 

“I think it’s on the verge of boring and defiantly too sappy.” Is he trying to get a rise out of Timothée again? Possibly. Is he being a huge idiot _again_? Most defiantly.

“Are you serious? Did you even listen to any of it? Or were you too busy thinking with that noodle of yours?” _This guy is just asking for it now._

“Seriously, do you wanna have a look for yourself? Because you keep talking about--”

“Fuck, it, I can’t take this anymore,” Timothée says, getting to his feet. Stuffs the now empty water bottle into his backpack before he starts walking in the direction of the parking lot.

“Where are you going?” Armie calls, standing up too.

“To find something to eat and get a fucking smoke before you make my brain melt,” Timothée answers.

Dusting off his pants, Armie jogs after Timothée, slapping him upside the head with the book, before running past him towards his car. “Get in, I know a place,” he says.

“I’m not sure I feel safe doing that, you know with your past as a former molester and everything. Besides, I might die of carbon monoxide poisoning if I get anyway near that thing,” Timothée says, gesturing at Armie’s car. His voice is light enough to make Armie’s temper stay in check.

Being around Timothée feels like constantly walking a very thin line and slipping half the time.

“You know what, just forget I even asked,” Armie says. Rolls his eyes and gets in the car.

Pulling the door open to the passenger side, Timothée gets in too. “Does this place of yours serve hot dogs?”

“I knew it, you just want some sausage,” Armie grins as he starts up the engine.

“I can’t believe how much I hate you,” Timothée says, flipping him off. He’s smiling, and Armie can’t help but chuckle.

“Right back atcha Timothy.”

Rolling out from school property and heading downtown, Armie rolls down his window and allows himself to enjoy the remnants of summer, the light feeling and the way Timothée’s curls blow in the wind. Right this second, he’s not questioning himself. He will again soon, but not right now.

The peacefulness doesn’t last long though. Just as Armie has pulled onto the highway (possibly passing the speed limit just a little,) Timothée opens the door in the passenger seat, making the cabin fill with air and Armie’s pulse shoot through the roof.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” Armie all but screams. (No- yells. Roars. If testosterone had a sound, this would be it.)

Slamming the door shut again, Timothée leans back in his seat as if nothing had happened.

“It sounded like it’s wasn’t properly closed,” he says.

“Well maybe you should’ve just asked me to pull over or something. Jesus fucking--”

“Calm down big guy, I’m fine. See? I’m even wearing a seatbelt, even though I have my doubts about the safety of this old--”

“One more degrading word about my girl and I’ll throw you out the door myself,” Armie warns.

“Your girl?” Timothée says, an incredulous expression on his face.

“One more word, Timo,” Armie says sternly.

“Fine, fine,” Timothée says, pressing play on the radio.

Armie could honestly have seen the next one coming, but as usual, he’d apparently rather hand Timothée as many opportunities as possible to chew his ass out. And, as usual, Timothée doesn’t miss a beat when the intro to Nickleback’s _Burn It to the Ground_ blasts through the speakers.

Timothée’s knee jerk reaction is to throw his head back against the head rest, bark out a startling laugh and slap his knee. “You really are one of a kind, Hammer,” Timothée cackles before he turns up the volume, the bass nearly making all the lose objects lying around in the car rattle.

The feeling that blooms in Armie’s chest as Timothée rolls down his own window, screams along the lyrics and throws weird hand signs out of the window is too big to kill. So, he lets it sit there, taking up all of the space in his body as he drums along on the steering wheel for the rest of the drive. _One of a kind._

* * *

“I honestly thought you were joking about the hot dog,” Armie says, licking mustard off of his thumb.

“What do you mean?” Timothée asks, catching a fleeing pickle with the palm of his hand right before it lands on his jeans. Brings his hand to his mouth and eats the thing right out of his own palm.

“You seem like one of those hipster types that would go into anaphylactic shock from eating meat,” Armie states dryly.

“Do you always judge people based on stupid stereotypes or am I special? And I’m not hipster, by the way” Timothée says, shoving Armie lightly on the shin with the tip of his sneaker. They’re sitting on the edge of a fountain in the middle of the park, facing each other.

“Nah, you’re just making it too easy. But don’t let that get to your head.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Timothée says, pulling out half a sausage from the bread. Tilting his head back, he makes a show out of dangling the piece of meat above his face, before putting the whole thing into his mouth. When he catches Armie starring at him, he just smiles a huge smile that would’ve probably been all white crooked teeth, if it hadn’t been for the half-chewed food filling up his mouth. He’s got ketchup in the corner of his mouth and his fingers are greasy.

“And you’re gross,” Armie answers, going back to his own food. His mouth feels dry and he has to use all of his willpower not to let the fond feeling in his chest reveal itself on his face. 

After finishing their food and wiping Timothée as clean as possible with a couple of tissues, they walk around the park. Armie knows that on any other day, he would’ve made an excuse and gone home. Would’ve pulled up his bullet proof (maybe not completely bullet proof but anyway,) defense and pushed Timothée away. Wouldn’t have let himself enjoy being in his presence like this, but it’s as if the events of the weekend have taken its toll on him. So, he keeps walking around with the kid. Tells himself that it’s better to stay out of the way at home anyway. He’d rather not risk his father being home. His mood hasn’t been good lately, Armie’s abdomen a clear evidence of that. Timothée might drive him crazy at day and restless at night, but he doesn’t leave any bruises behind. At least, not on his skin.

“So, the girl from last night. She was pretty,” Timothée says.

Armie freezes for a second, his shoulders tensing up. He’d almost forgotten about that.

“I take it she’s your girlfriend?”

Not knowing what to say, Armie just pulls out a cigarette. Lights it up and keeps walking.

Raking his mind for something to say, he runs a nervous hand through his hair.

_He’ll never speak to me again if he finds out that I had a drunk minor suck my dick._

_He’ll never let it rest if I tell him that the girlfriend is a lie._

_I can’t have him find out that he’s the reason why I jumped the poor girl and made up the girlfriend._

“Funny that you ask, I was wondering the exact same thing about you and that dude,” Armie says, cringing inwardly. _I’d rather not think, let alone talk about that either, actually._

Timothée just shrugs. Plucks a cigarette from his own packet.

“He’s not my girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Shit, I think you’re the one being ridiculous now,” Armie says, desperately trying to change the subject. Desperately trying not to let his mind stumble over the fact that Timothée isn’t dating the leech. _It’s just that he could probably do better._

Shoving Armie in the side with his shoulder, Timothée sucks on his cigarette as he shakes his head, a smile on his face.

They walk along the paths at the park, before they reach a small pond. Sitting down, Timothée sighs and rests his arms on his knees. Sitting next to him, Armie leans back on his hands before he realizes that he’s too tired to keep himself upright. Laying down, he gazes up at the sky. The sun is setting, casting the sky in pink and golden hues. It smells of fried food and freshly cut grass, the occasional whiff of Timothée wafting over him when the kid moves.

Holding his hand up towards the sky, Timothée closes one eye while holding his hand still. Armie has no idea what he’s doing, but figures that as long as the kid isn’t talking, things are fine. So, he doesn’t say anything. Just basks in the quiet, easy mood that has surrounded them the past hours. He should probably be worried that he hasn’t felt the urge to rip off Timothée’s head for such a long time.

“Why do you insist on being such a douche bag all the time?” Timothée asks, still looking up at his hand and the sky. His voice is quiet. Curios but cautious.

Swallowing, Armie looks away from Timothée. His profile with the pink skies in the background does nothing to help Armie keep his cool.

“It’s what people expect from me. No need to disappoint them,” Armie answers.

Timothée is quiet for a minute, before he places his hand back down on his chest. Closes his eyes and says, “I doubt that you’d be able to disappoint anyone. Not for real.”

_What does he mean by that? Shit._

“You’d be surprised,” Armie says, thinking about the smell of expensive alcohol and crucifixes hanging from delicate golden chains.

_He’ll pull and pull, luring you into temptation. He’ll be your downfall. Don’t let him._

Armie lingers on those thoughts for a minute before he rolls his eyes at himself. It’s scaring how easily he can make them fuck off.

“Does your parents know that you’re… you know—into boys?” Armie asks. He doesn’t know why he’s asking this. It’s dangerous territory, but he’s curious. Curious and in desperate need to find out how to fix himself.

Scratching the corner of his mouth, Timothée looks in the opposite direction of Armie.

“I think the word that you’re looking for here is gay. And yes, they do. It’s not like we’re living in the fifties or something.”

Armie doesn’t know what to answer to this. _Some of us might be,_ he thinks. _Some of us might not have the privilege of loving, accepting parents._

When Armie doesn’t answer, Timothée takes matters into his own hands and asks a question that makes Armie’s blood run cold, his heart stuttering. It feels like he’s been electrified with fear. “Does your parents know that you’re gay?”

_And who the fuck is he to make assumptions about Armie anyway?_

“I’m not like that,” Armie says. He can already feel his anger simmering beneath his skin.

“Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night. Nothing screams closeted gay like sexually assaulting guys on dance floors though.”

Timothée, of course, has no idea how close he just hit to home. Or, maybe he does, and that’s the problem. He’s crawling under Armie’s skin, manifesting in his brain, feasting on his will power and Armie doesn’t know how to stop him, how to save himself. If it weren’t for Timothée, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. _That’s not true—you did this to yourself. You’re the one who turned out all wrong and useless._

Armie can’t listen to this kid anymore. He’s afraid what it’ll do to him.

Leaning his body towards Timothée, Armie all but sneers, “I just told you, I’m not gay. I’m not forcing you to be straight either, am I? so shut up, because frankly, you don’t know shit about me,” his face is mere centimeters away from Timothée’s. He’s so close that he can probably count the freckles on his nose. But he won’t because that’s a sure ticket to hell.

“Dude chill the fuck out. I’m not forcing you to be anything, I’m just stating the obvious. I swear to God, you’re so fucking sensitive,” Timothée says, throwing his hands up in the air and rolling his eyes.

It doesn’t make Armie calm down. It fuels the fire in his chest, the flames of anger licking at his throat, his tongue.

“And you’re a stupid asshole who’s constantly wading all over other people’s boundaries,” he spits.

Timothée doesn’t say anything, jus rolls onto his stomach, plucking angrily at the grass while breathing aggressively. Starring at the darkening sky, Armie tries to calm his pulse, his breathing.

The anger leaves nothing but regret. Regret and a weird tinge of sadness. He shouldn’t have said any of that. In all honesty, Timothée is as far from a stupid asshole as one gets. That doesn’t mean that he _loves_ the guy, but “stupid asshole,” that was just uncalled for.

_We were having such a good time, and I just had to ruin that, as usual._

Rubbing a hand across his face, he tries to clear the fog clouding his brain. He feels desperate to lighten the mood.

Minutes pass between them before Armie speaks up again. Of, course, he chooses the second most loaded question of the day. Sometimes he relies too much on Timothée not to let shit run wild.

“Did you really feel assaulted?” Armie asks. Holds his breathe as he awaits Timothée’s answer.

“Does it matter? It’s the principle,” Timothée say, his voice low and tight, as if trying to stay mad. 

“Principles are fucking stupid,” Armie mutters back. _Fuck, maybe he should just leave the guy alone._

“What did you say?” Timothée asks, turning his head to face Armie. His eyes are glimmering, but it’s not with anger. It’s a challenge. An opening for Armie to make things good again.

“I said that you’re a little shit,” Armie says, his voice a little lighter, eyes staring straight into Timothée’s.

Grinning, Timothée buds Armie in the shoulder with his head. A curl tickles Armie’s chin, and he almost leans in, just to get a little more of that soothing feeling emitting from Timothée. But Timothée is the wiser of the two and pulls back again immediately, leaving no signs of the longing that has tinged Armie’s mood, as he says, “I heard what you said. Idiot.”

Armie translates _idiot,_ into, _we’re good._

* * *

They drive back to the school when the sun has set (after Armie had asked Timothée if they could put the thing at the club behind them. After Timothée had promised not to rub it in Armie’s face anymore, and Armie had felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders.) The windows are closed, keeping the night chill out. The car is silent, save for the rumble of the motor. Timothée has his head leaned against the head rest while he stares out on the passing road. Armie keeps within the speed limits, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. This is the second time that he’s been out late because of Timothée. Last time, it got him a nasty surprise. He’s should know better by now. But he doesn’t, and when he glances at the kid, his cheekbones catching the light of passing cars, Armie can’t bring himself to regret this day. He’ll just make sure that the lights are out before he enters the house. Be prepared for the worst and hope for the best.

Pulling up in his spot at the school, Armie lets the engine run. Rests his hands on his thighs and turns to Timothée.

“You’re not one those idiots who doesn’t have light on their bike, are you?” he asks. It’s dark outside and Timothée looks delicate. Armie knows that he’s as far from fragile as he can be, but he still can’t help but linger on the image of Timothée lying on the ground, limps all tangled up in a twisted metal frame.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” Timothée asks, unbuckling his seat belt.

Armie huffs. “You want the honest answer?”

“Thanks for the ride, Armie.” Opening the door, Timothée slides out of the car.

Armie just hums, shrugs a shoulder.

Just as Timothée grabs his backpack from the floor of the car, getting ready to close the door, Armie swallows. Spits out a question that effectively ruins all plans of being rid of the kid by next week.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

Smiling, Timothée hoists his backpack onto his shoulder. “Of course,” he says. Slams the door and crosses the parking lot to the bicycle stands.

Armie sits there for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel, head hanging low. His face split into a smile that he doesn’t want Timothée to see, because it wouldn’t take him long to know that he is the one who put it there.

Shaking out of it, Armie pulls out of the parking lot. Drives past Timothée, who’s now sporting a helmet, bike lighting up both in the front and in the back.

* * *

Coming home, Armie turns off the headlights a hundred meters before he reaches the house. Closes the heavy front door as silently as possible and tiptoes through the dark hallway. When he walks past the living room, towards the staircase, he feels like he made it.

“Armand, is that you?”

Armie stills. Straightens his back and clears his throat.

“Yes, mom. I’m sorry that I’m late,” he says, peeking into the living room.

His mother is sitting in the corner of the living room, a single lamp turned on as she reads. His father is nowhere near in sight. It leaves Armie with a paranoid feeling in the back of his neck.

“Where have you been?” she asks, a small crease between her eyebrows.

“Just working on a school project,” he says. It’s not a lie. That didn’t stop his father though.

Getting up from her chair, his mother crosses the room.

Placing the book on the coffee table, she turns her back to Armie, asks, “what kind of project?”

“We, uhm, it’s in English class. We’re reading and analyzing a piece of literature by choice. We—we’re reading Little Women,” he answers. He doesn’t know why he’s giving her this much information. Maybe because he doesn’t want her to think that he’s lying. Maybe because he wants her to be proud. Maybe he just wants his mother to know what he’s doing with his life.

“Where’s dad?” he asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Left for a business trip just before dinner. You know how busy he’s been lately,” she says, turning around and walking towards him. Armie doesn’t know how busy his father’s been. He’s mainly trying to avoid the man. The fact that he’s out of the house for now though, makes Armie’s shoulders slump, his jaw relaxing.

“Oh,” is all the answer he can come up with.

“Who are you doing this project with?” his mother asks, folding her arms across her chest.

“Timothée. Uh, Chalamet. You don’t know his parents, he just moved here from New York. I uh, I’ve been showing him around this week—helping him settle in.”

_Just give up already man, she’s not going to be proud of you, not unless you sacrifice your life in the name of Jesus and his old man._

“Is he a good boy?” she asks, a mild expression on her face. _Good boy,_ Armie thinks. _What is that even supposed to mean?_

Shrugging, he nods. Looks down at his shoes. _He’s beautiful. He’s smart and cheeky. He’s brave and funny. He’s my living nightmare, my downfall. Not sure he’s good, but he sure is a lot of nice things._ “Yeah, he’s nice.”

Feeling a hand cupping his cheek, Armie looks at his mother, who’s smiling at him, eyes squinting.

It’s been years since he last found comfort in his mother’s touch. Now it just feels forced. Unnatural for the both of them. It’s almost as if it emphasizes how far away, they’ve slipped from each other. It hurts, in a whole other, and probably worse, way than the touch of his father.

“Good. Now, go to bed,” she says, letting go of his face, returning to her chair.

Armie sighs in relief and makes his way up the stairs, this time walking like a normal person.

* * *

Lying in bed, Armie can’t sleep. (Alright, so maybe he spent five minutes with his eyes closed before he gave up and grabbed his phone, so what.)

He winds up on Instagram, scrolling through his feed, before he stumbles upon a new post from Nick’s account. Looking at the likes, he notices an account named _tchalamet._

Biting his lip, Armie clicks into the account. Regrets nothing and everything when a whole plethora of Timothée’s appear on his small screen. _Fuck, this might literally be a pit of deadly sins for Armie to fall into._

The latest addition, is Timothée standing in front of a mirror, wearing a white tank top, a green knitted sweat slipping off his shoulder. He’s holding the phone so that it’s covering his face. You can see his curls though, and Armie can almost perfectly recall the feeling of them tickling his chin.

Scrolling on, he stops at a selfie that makes his stomach tighten. The little shit has his chin tucked towards his chest, a pair of headphones covering his mandibular and half of his small, pouty red mouth. His eyes are staring into the camera, making Armie feel as if the kid is right in front of him. Carefully caressing the screen, Armie wonders in awe how a futile attempt at a beard, randomly sprinkled freckles and the beginning of a mono brow can make his mouth run dry like this.

It’s when he moves his thumb towards the hair on the screen, that he loses his grip on his phone, making him fumble around before he catches the thing again. By the time he’s placed his phone the right side up again, the damage is already done. Right below the picture, is a red heart. Armie curses out loud, his face pulling up in a grimace full of _fuck, shit, crap._ Pounding his fists against the mattress, he groans out loud. _He’s such a fucking idiot, fumbling around like a clumsy creeper. Fuck._

Looking back at the screen, he almost throws himself out of the window when he sees the date it was posted. It’s a six months old photo and Armie has just been caught stalking Timothée’s Instagram at eleven thirty on a school night. _Maybe I won’t see him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just move to Siberia and drown my phone in a freezing lake. And he’ll know why I never showed up again. He’ll laugh his ass off, telling every single person about Armie Hammer, the football captain who was obsessed with him._

Turning off his phone, Armie dies of embarrassment until he falls asleep. At least it killed his boner too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always; you're very welcome to comment here, or come talk to me on Tumblr: Kiros18


	6. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should change the sheets. Get rid of the kid. Get him to fuck off from his brain. But he’s so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: coercive control and mention of past abuse

Two weeks after the most idiotic-noob-stalker incident in the history of the world, Armie still lives in LA. (He’s come to the conclusion that maybe he’s defiantly a bit too dramatic, knows he isn’t the first one to pull something like that, but that doesn’t make it less mortifying. He’s also come to the conclusion that maybe Timothée hadn’t noticed. Worst case, he’s keeping it to himself until he needs to blackmail Armie with some heavy artillery. In that case, Armie will be prepared.)

He’s currently making his way to the old gymnasium building, rounding the corner of the brick wall when he sees that it’s not just Nick and Henry there waiting for him. Timothée’s there too, both of his legs draped on top of Nick’s thighs, leaning his back against Henry’s shoulder. They’re taking up all of the space on the bench.

“There he is,” Nick says, blowing out a plume of smoke, a smile on his face as he squints against the sun. Armie just grunts in acknowledgement, fishing out a cigarette from his back pocket.

“We were wondering where you were,” Timothée says, taking a drag from his own cigarette, dangling his legs like a little schoolgirl. Armie thinks he looks more stupid than cute right now. (This has been a problem for weeks. Armie not being able to spend time with Nick alone, because string bean is always there. Always hanging off of Nick, Nick always letting him. Armie thinks it’s gross.)

“Nick’s guess was that you were being held back by the coach. Timothée’s guess was that you were snogging your girlfriend,” Henry snickers.

“Talking bullshit as usual?” Armie asks, leaning against the wall.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Timothée says, raising an eyebrow at Armie.

Armie just folds his arms in front of himself and spits on the ground.

“Dude, gross” Nick groans, screwing his face up in disgust.

“What?” Armie is almost getting annoyed by now, (joke, he is annoyed.) Nick used to do the same thing all the time, but ever since the princess perched halfway on top of his lap poofed out of thin air, Nick has been acting all prissy and proper. It’s ridiculous.

“Don’t worry Niki, I can handle a little man filth once in a while,” Timothée says, hanging his arm off of Nick’s shoulder. His light pink pants are bunched up enough so that Armie can see his ankles, the first bit of shin too. It makes Armie swallow dryly, his headache increasing. And no, Armie’s sour mood does not have anything to do with the fact that it’s been two weeks since he and Timothée went to the park. Because Armie hasn’t spent a single god damned moment thinking about that. Thinking about how it had felt like maybe he would be alright with Timothée sticking around, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. About how he had been prepared to let the little shit know that he could stick around, right when Timothée decided to retreat. So, the fact that Nick _and_ Timothée apparently prefer each other’s company before Armie’s does not have anything to do with Armie wanting to tell the whole world to eat shit.

“Oh, I know,” Nick laughs, pulling a drag from his cigarette. _What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What is going on? Are they flirting? And why is Timothée calling him Niki? They’ve known each other for three weeks!_

Starring at Nick and Timothée, Armie’s stomach feels queasy. They’re literally always touching (well, often enough to make Armie feel like it.) Nick is spending more and more time with Timothée, and Timothée’s always clinging to Nick, laughing at what he says, cracking jokes that Armie doesn’t understand. _They’re probably fucking,_ Armie’s brain suddenly supplies, and fuck if that doesn’t make Armie throw up a little bit inside his mouth.

Swallowing the acrid bile in his mouth, Armie tries to will the stinging in his chest away.

 _Nick isn’t gay—he can’t be. First of all, he would’ve told Armie. Right? They’re best friends, they tell each other everything. At least they used to. Second of all, if Nick is gay—what does that mean for Armie? It would tear even further at his defense, at his already weakening willpower. It would make it nearly impossible for Armie to resist the sickness growing inside of him. And, like, he would never think of Nick as sick but, he wouldn’t be able to accommodate to that reality either. He wouldn’t be able to look at his best friend, being something that he could never be himself. Nick can’t be gay._

Feeling panic creeping up on him, Armie pushes away from the wall and starts walking back and forth on the small patch of grass behind the gymnasium. One arm hugging himself, he tries to calm his mind. _Nick’s always been friendly. Timothée touches everyone constantly, it’s like he doesn’t even know it. They’re just hitting it off as friends. Nick even had that sort-of girlfriend during the summer—the one with the huge tits and long red hair. She was objectively hot. Nick isn’t gay._

He feels restless, like the only way to get rid of the crippling feeling of his life eroding like a sandcastle on the shoreline is to run it off. He can’t though, that would look ridiculous and he literally just finished practice. He just needs to pull through.

“Better get back, class starts in five minutes,” Timothée says, pulling his legs off of Nick and standing from the bench.

Grunting, Armie flicks his cigarette bud on the ground, kills it with his shoe and starts heading towards the main building. 

“Armie, wait.” It’s Nick, his hand catching Armie’s bicep in a firm grip. His eyes are flickering all over Armie’s face, as if searching for an answer Armie doesn’t know the question to.

“We still on for today?” he asks, a half-smile on his face.

“Yeah, of course,” Armie nods, a heavy ball of anxiety making itself comfortable in the pit of his stomach. He’s got a shift at the rescue center this afternoon, and Nick had asked if he could tag along. Said that he wanted to spend some time with his favorite bitch _and_ the dogs, to which, Armie had laughed and punched him in the shoulder. It’s moments like these that Armie so easily forgets every time he sees Timothée climbing Nick, (and no, he’s defiantly not exaggerating.)

Giving Armie’s bicep a firm squeeze, Nick smiles, says, “I’ll wait by your car,” and starts jogging towards the main building. Armie runs a hand through his hair and blows out a deep breath _._

* * *

“Oh, hello you, yes it’s you I’m talking to, you pretty little thing,” Nick coos, rubbing a small Coton de Tulear behind her ears, the small dog yapping and licking at his face.

“You know, it would be a lot easier for the both of you if you’d just bring her home for good,” Armie says, filling her bowl with water

“Are you kidding, my mom would kill me,” Nick huffs, getting himself comfortable on the floor with the eager dog in his lap. Armie knows Nick’s mom. She wouldn’t kill him; she’d barely put up a fight. As long as she wouldn’t have to scoop up the poops, she’d let Nick have all the dogs he’d like.

“She’d come around,” Armie says. “No one would be able to say no to this one.”

“Then why don’t you just take her home yourself?”

“My mom would kill me,” Armie grins, walking past Nick.

Huffing out a laugh, Nick raises his voice as Armie walks further away, “we could hide her in your room, she’d never find out in that big house of yours,” he says. _Well. He’s probably right. We don’t exactly bother one another with each other’s presence._

“What, and raise her like a dog of a broken home?” Armie almost winces at how precise his own comment is. 

“Yeah, I could visit once every other weekend, and you could sit in the corner of the room, acting all passive aggressive as if I’m not there,” Nick says, grinning at Armie with that stupid broad smile that would probably in all honesty make his mother agree to the dog if he’d just give it a try. 

“Or you could just ask your mom,” Armie says, rummaging around in a cabinet full of dog food.

Nick just makes a sound, meaning _nah,_ and starts cooing at the dog again, sounding like one of those grownups that suddenly loses all of their linguistic skills because they’ve seen a stroller.

“How’s it going with you and Timothée by the way?” Nick asks suddenly, making Armie drop a feeding bowl, the metal making a hollow clang echo through the bare walls.

“What did you say?” Armie asks, fumbling to catch the rolling bowl.

“I said how’s it going? With the project in English,” Nick says, reaching out a foot to stop the fleeing feeding bowl.

“Oh- that, uhm fine. We haven’t worked that much on it lately, we probably should but you know, been busy and--”’

“I think he’s worried that you don’t like him,” Nick cuts him off.

_Hah. I don’t. Well, I do. At night, when I’m tired and drowning in self-pity. On afternoons, beneath rustling leaves and white clouds. In dark corners with thumbing music and alcohol. At those times, I can’t seem to remember how much I don’t like him._

Armie clears his throat. “Why would he think that?”

Nick shrugs. Puts a hand on his hip and leans against a counter. “Dunno. I thought maybe you would have an idea?”

“Well I don’t. Maybe he just needs to like, accept that not everyone wants to be his friend. Maybe it’s about time he starts finding his own friends too,” Armie says.

Nick doesn’t answer, just looks out the window, a thoughtful look on his face. (This is the worst kind of responses you can get from Nick. It means that he doesn’t agree on what you just said and is now contemplating how to explain it to you in the most retard-friendly way.)

“He just moved here, Armie. And from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s doing exactly that,”

“How’s that? Clinging to us all of the time, like—like, he’s suddenly one of us, when he’s not.”

“Why isn’t he one of us?”

This one, Armie doesn’t know how to answer.

Sighing, Nick grips the counter behind him with both hands, his expression soft. (Armie knows this one too, Nick uses it every time he’s trying to broaden Armie’s scope of vision without making Armie pull up his defenses.)

“Just—I think that maybe you could ease up a little. Give him a chance,” Nick says, shooting Armie a smile.Armie literally has to bite his tongue not to get himself into trouble. _Seems like you’re doing great at easing up yourself, Nick. Seems like you’re giving him a little too much of a chance. Seems like maybe, I’m the one hurting in all of this, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? Because you don’t have time for me anymore._

“Yeah, sure,” Armie mumbles, turning on his heal and heading out in the back.

He needs a breather. _Shit. He didn’t mean those things._ Even just thinking those things makes Armie’s stomach churn with regret. Nick isn’t trying to hurt him on purpose, he knows that. Nick doesn’t know half the shit that’s going on inside of Armie, because Armie won’t let him. Armie is the one pushing Nick away, ripping at the seams of their friendship, because when everything comes down to basics, Nick is a guy. Nick is a guy and a potential thread to Armie’s defense. And Armie knows that it’s stupid, but sometimes he’s scared that he’s turned on by all of his male friends. Sometimes, when he hasn’t slept enough, or when his father has been home for a long period of time, or when the tearing anxiety has spontaneously wrapped its claws around him, he’s scared that his body wants every guy he sees. It’s irrational and paralyzing. It’s the reason he doesn’t sleep over at Nick’s anymore. It’s the reason he doesn’t hug his male friends, always turns his back to the guys in the locker room. It’s the reason why he doesn’t watch straight porn, because, what if he accidentally watches the guy when he comes? It’s the reason why he’d rather have Timothée think the worst.

Hearing the doorbell chime, Armie rubs his face, straightens out his posture and paints a smile on his face. Heading out to the front, he almost stops in his steps, but swallows instead. Looking at him is Annabelle, the girl from Nick’s party from weeks ago.

“Anna, hey!” Nick chimes from Armie’s left, making Armie furrow his eyebrows.

_Nick knows her?_

Annabelle just waves, a gentle smile on her face. “Hi.”

“You two know each other?” Armie blurts.

“Yeah. Through our mothers. How do you know her?” Nick asks, pulling himself onto the counter.

“We uh, we met at your party. Armie called me a cap when I got tired,” Annabelle says. _Well. That’s partly true. Not really, though._

“You did? How noble,” Nick laughs, his face telling Armie that he doesn’t believe a word of it.

Clearing his throat, Armie wipes his hands on his jeans. Seeing the girl out in full daylight does nothing to ease the growing worry he’s felt since that night. She’s just a kid. She could’ve literally been his little sister. He feels like the worst guy on earth. 

“What can I help you with?” he asks, trying to busy himself with the cash register, not wanting to look her in the eye. Afraid of what he’ll see. _Hate. Disgust. Regret._

“I’m looking for a dog,” she says.

Nick chuckles, says, “well aren’t you lucky, that’s literally all this place has got.” Jumping off the counter, he motions for her to follow. “Come on, I’ve got just the thing you’re looking for,” he says.

Armie just stands there and stares, letting Nick do his job for him, before he pulls out of it and follows the two of them.

* * *

“Now, I think this little one would be perfect for you. Just look at her, isn’t she a darling?” Nick says, picking up the small white ball of fluff that defiantly isn’t going to be his and Armie’s shared dog-child.

“Oh my god, she’s adorable,” Annabelle says, her face breaking into an immediate grin.

“Her name’s Mini,” Armie says, waving a hand in front of himself in an awkward gesture. “But like, you can just call her whatever you’d like of course. It’s not like she cares—she’s a dog,” Armie rambles. _You are so far from cool as one can get right now, dude._

“Mini--” Annabelle tries, as if testing the name. “I like mini,” she says, burrowing her face in the dog’s white fur.

“How old is she?” Annabelle asks, looking up at Armie, her eyes shining.

“Uh about six months,” Armie says, reaching out and scratching the dog behind its ears.

“I love her already,” Annabelle states, blushing when Armie makes eye contact with her. _I bet I’m the main character in her diary,_ Armie thinks to himself.

Looking up from the dog, he makes eye contact with Nick, who’s got smirk plastered all over his face, his eyebrow raised as he observes the obvious teenage crush batting its eyelashes at Armie.

Armie just busies himself, showing Annabelle what kinds of foods she needs to get and filling her in on practicalities.

It’s when she’s already out the door, dog and chewing toys in hand, that Armie realizes that maybe it’s not necessarily a bad thing that she’s clearly putting him on pedestal. Jumping from where he stands, he rounds the counter, pulls open the door and jogs the few couple of steps she’s made down the street.

“Annabelle--” he calls, coming to a halt in front of her, as she turns around, a hopeful look on her face.

“If uh—If you have any questions, or, you know, need help with that,” he says, pointing at the dog, “then here’s my number.” Reaching out a piece of paper with his number, he gives her a small smile. The effect is immediate, her cheeks going pink, as she takes the paper with a shaking hand.

“Yeah, of course! Uhm, thank you, Armie,” Annabelle stutters.

“No problem,” Armie says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you around?” he asks, already turning to leave.

Heading back inside, Armie just cocks an eyebrow at Nick who’s sitting behind the counter, looking at him with an expression Armie can’t quiet decode. It doesn’t really matter what Nick thinks. He needed a plan, and this might be the start of one.

_Spend more time with girls. Keep up the image. Make sure that she doesn’t wake up one day and hate you for what you did. Keep your enemies closer and all that shit._

* * *

He’s not even sure right now if she feels like he took advantage. _She might when she stops making you out to be something that you’re not. When she grows older and figures out what a fraud you were._

All he knows is that Timothée defiantly felt assaulted, and isn’t that just a beautiful track record he’s building here?

_Oh well. Rule number one, you really gotta stop comparing girls to the guy if you want this to work._

Moving his body to the right in one fluid motion, Armie swings his leg backwards, aims at the ball and lands a solid kick with the inside of his foot, making the ball fly straight towards the makeshift end zone in Nick’s backyard. Coming to a halt, Armie leans his hands on his knees, trying to gain back his breathe.

“You getting out of shape, captain?” Nick jokes, clapping Armie on the back with a solid palm.

“Shut--” Armie heaves in a breath, “—up,” he finishes, tackling Nick to the ground before the guy has a chance to move out of the way. Grunting, Nick catches Armie in a headlock, rolls them around and pushes Armie into the damp lawn. “I’m sorry, what’d you say?” Nick grins, letting go of Armie and falling to the ground himself.

Armie lands a fist on Nick’s bicep, the punch weak after hours of running around in Nick’s backyard. “I bet it’s the smoking,” Nick pants, wincing when he bends his legs.

“Fuck, please don’t start,” Armie says, wiping at his brow. The sky is way past being blue and golden, the dusk settling over them like a blanket of chilling moist. He’s completely beat by now, but it’s what he needed. To just, run around with the ball, spend time with Nick like they used to, not having to second guess every single sentence, every move, every god damned heartbeat. Armie almost feels alright.

“Ugh, I need a shower,” Nick groans, rolling halfway onto his side before swinging himself upright. “Yeah, you stink like a full locker room,” Armie says, heaving himself upright too.

Swatting Armie at the back of his head, Nick goes to pick up the ball.

“You staying the night?” Nick asks over his shoulder, already moving towards the house, not noticing how Armie stills for a second. A jolt of anxiety shoots through his body, manifesting in his stomach. Rubbing his face with a grass stained hand, Armie swallows.

“Uh— probably shouldn’t you know, told my mom I’d be home before ten thirty,” he says. It’s a straight up lie. His mother wouldn’t care, and his father isn’t home. But he can’t exactly tell Nick that, no, he’s not staying the night, because he’s scared that his body will betray him. That he’ll get a fucking boner if he sees another man without a shirt. That he’ll probably start crying in panic if that happens.

“Then why don’t you just call her?” Nick asks, pulling the door open.

_Fuck, ugh. What to say, what to--_

When Armie doesn’t answer, Nick casts a glance at him over his shoulder. Armie looks everywhere but Nick, his hands fiddling with the excess fabric of his shorts.

“Wanna take a shower before you head home?” Nick asks, heading towards the stairs. His voice tells Armie that he knows not to push Armie further. That is both relieving and extremely concerning.

“Yeah, that’d probably be a good idea,” Armie says, following Nick. The peace he’d found during their game in the garden is long gone.

* * *

Sitting in his car, Armie leans back into the front seat, staring out the window. His mind is a jumble, his nerves making it hard to focus on anything specific. He doesn’t really know why he’s this much on edge. He’s got nothing to be nervous about. He’s just going to drive home and go to bed. Nevertheless, he’s listening to ABBA, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. (He mostly listens to ABBA when he’s feeling jittery when he can’t stand to be alone in his own head. It’s cheery, relatively carefree music and it usually helps him take the edge off.)

He’s just about to pull himself together and drive home, when a caller ID he hasn’t seen in two weeks pops up on his screen. Feeling his whole nervous system kick shit up a notch, Armie stares at the buzzing phone, completely paralyzed. _Just pick it up, dude. No, defiantly don’t pick up. What does he even want? Does it matter? It never ends well with this kid. It might be important though—yeah but what if he’s just going to say something that sets you off? Fuck._

The phone stops buzzing before Armie can make a decision.

_Alright. Problem solved._

Throwing the phone into the passenger seat, Armie starts up the engine, getting ready to just drive home and make this day end.

But, of course, Timothée Chala-fucking-met isn’t one to give up after just one try. What was Armie even thinking?

Grabbing the phone, Armie picks up the call.

“You’re aware that it’s fucking late, right?” Armie grunts into the receiver.

“Oh, sorry grandpa, wrong number,” Timothée deadpans.

“Have you considered trying stand-up?” Armie asks dryly, already patting his pockets for his cigarettes. Not that he’s got any plans of quitting, but it’s defiantly not a possibility as longs as Timothée’s around. He’s turning Armie into a baby that needs a pacifier half the time.

“Well, I hope _you_ haven’t,” Timothée answers, a grin in his voice.

“What do you want?” Armie asks, finally locating his cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans. When he pulls it out, it’s all crumpled and there’s only one wrinkled cigarette left. _The kid is turning him into a fucking chimney._

“I wanted to remind you about our project and that we need to work on it at some point,” Timothée says. Armie places the stick between his lips, sucks and puts his lighter to the end of it. Throws the lighter on the seat beside him when the end of the stick starts glowing, smoke filling his mouth. _Better than a regular pacifier._

“I’m aware,” Armie grumbles, turning down the music. Timothée might’ve been weirdly accepting towards Nickleback, but Armie isn’t sure that he’ll let him live _Chiquitita_ down.

“So, we’re meeting up tomorrow. At our spot, after school,” Timothée says as if they already agreed on this. And wait, hold on a minute—

“Our spot? Where the fuck is that even?”

“Fuck, Armie, the tree! Please don’t tell you were really sleeping.”

“I might’ve been,” Armie grumbles, sucking on his cigarette. It sounds like Timothée is alone, the only noise on the line being his voice, the static. It’s scary how calm Armie suddenly feels, sleepiness overwhelming him. He should get home.

Timothée scoffs. “Will you please just be there?”

“Yeah I’ll be there, don’t you worry princess,” Armie says, putting his hand out the window, flicking ashes on the asphalt.

“I can’t stand you,” Timothée says, his voice dry, maybe a little amused, if Armie were to listen closely. He’s not, of course.

“You’re the one who insisted on blasting me with phone calls,” Armie shoots back.

“I called twice, and one of us had to,” Timothée states. “Goodnight, Armie. Don’t forget to pull out your dentures before you go to bed,” he finishes, hanging up the phone, an annoying beeping the only sound left behind.

“Don’t forget to pull out your--” Armie mocks, throwing his phone in the direction of his lighter before he drives home, blasting _Does Your Mother Know._

* * *

The next afternoon, the skies have opened themselves, effectively flooding the whole city.

Armie is standing beneath the tree that Timothée insisted they meet by. His hoodie is soaked, and the first cold drizzle of water has just made its way into one of his shoes. It’s the first rain in weeks, and it just had to come today. _Fucking weather,_ Armie curses. _Why the fuck are you cursing the weather? What good’s that gonna do? Maybe choose your battles are little more wisely._

He’s aware that he could’ve waited inside or even in his car. Could’ve texted the kid, told him that under no circumstances would he wait for him outside in this weather. But no, Armie had chosen the least grown-up way to handle this, by standing in the middle of the flood, arms crossed against his chest, a scowl on his face. _This way, the kid gets to have his way. This way, the kid will have to come find Armie and get drenched himself. Hah. Jokes on you, Timothée._

By the time Timothée is coming into view, his raincoat pulled up, a hand shielding his eyes from the pouring rain as he scouts for Armie, Armie is positively shivering.

“Why the hell are you standing out here?” Timothée calls, jogging the rest of the way, water splashing when his feet hit the ground. It draws Armie’s attention to what the kid is wearing. A pair of obnoxious red wellingtons and an orange raincoat, reaching midthigh. Only the few curls sticking out from beneath the hood of his coat looks wet. Armie immediately hates how dry Timothée looks. Of course, the kid wouldn’t be the one paying for Armie’s stubbornness. 

“Someone told me to _please meet him here,_ ” Armie says, stuffing his icy hands into the front of his hoodie.

“Jesus, not in this fucking deluge!”

“Well, I waited for you, the least you could do would be to acknowledge that,” Armie says, feeling embarrassed and cold and _tired._

“And what good will that do when you’re in bed with pneumonia enough to keep a whole respiratory ward running?”

“I’m fine,” Armie sniffles, hunching his shoulders when the cold water starts to make his muscles tighten. “Where do you want to this? Obviously not here,” he asks.

“Obviously,” Timothée agrees, balling his hands into fists, making them disappear in orange sleeves. “We’re going to your place, you need dry clothes before you start sneezing all over me,” Timothée states, already turning to leave.

“What, you locked yourself out again?” Armie asks, staying in place.

“No, but you still need to change into something dry, and no way are you going to be able to squeeze into my clothes,” Timothée states, making an exaggerated motion with his arm in the direction of the parking lot.

Grumbling, Armie reluctantly starts walking. His father isn’t home these days, so maybe it’ll be alright. And it’s not like he never brings home other people—he does. There’s just something about Timothée that makes Armie feel like having him sniffing around might be a bad idea. Plus, he’s a little scared what it’ll do to his fucked-up brain if he knows that Timothée has been in his room. If he can picture the kid standing in random places all the time. He doesn’t trust his own imagination enough for that. But here he is, and it’s his own fault. If he hadn’t insisted on standing in the rain like a stupid idiot, then this wouldn’t be necessary. Timothée wouldn’t be right about Armie freezing his ass off.

Loading Timothée’s bicycle into the bed of his car, Armie jogs the driver’s door, pulls it open and all but throws himself inside. Jamming the key into the ignition, Armie scoots around until he’s comfortable. Blasts the heat and blows warm air into his hands, acting as if he can’t feel Timothée’s eyes on him. As if he isn’t shaking all over.

“You should let me drive. I can hear your bones rattling all the way over here” Timothée says.

“Yeah, no way,” Armie answers, rubbing his hands together.

“I can literally hear your teeth clattering. You’re just gonna drive us into a ditch.”

“I’d rather drive into a ditch myself than have you do it for me,” Armie states dryly, throwing his arm over the back of the passenger’s seat as he looks over his shoulder, pulling out of the parking lot. His hand is so close to the back of Timothée’s head that he can feel curls tickling his thumb, heat radiating from the mess of hair. If he just moved his hand a little, he’d be able to--- _fuck. retreat, retreat, retreat._

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m a good driver!” Timothée whines, his pitch going places that Armie would probably give him shit for if it wasn’t for the fact that he could literally feel his own balls shrinking right this moment.

“Can you even reach the pedals, shorty? No way I’m going to let you slip around over here in those boots.”

“Do you know how not to be a condescending son of bitch? Because it’s getting old.” Alright, this time Armie defiantly hit a sore spot. It almost feels nice. 

“Condescending?”

“Demeaning, degrading, humiliating--” _Maybe I’ll drive into a ditch on purpose if he doesn’t give me a break._

“I know what it means, Jesus.”

Casting a side glance at Timothée, Armie can’t help but be in awe of whatever it is the kid is wearing. He looks like a runaway fashion show. One of those where the clothes are so weird that you just know they’re way too expensive and fancy for you to understand the purpose of it.

They sit in silence for about one mile. Armie doesn’t know why he chooses to break it, maybe he just forgot his brain at home this morning. It’s actually an achievement in itself that Timothée hasn’t spoken for multiple minutes.

“Where did you get—that?” Armie asks, his voice already sounds judging, his hand gesture defiantly not helping the case either.

“From home. I actually checked the weather forecast before I went to school,” Timothée says.

And what any normal person would do when being judged by their outfit, would be to cross their arms in front of themselves, maybe pull at a sleeve or look in the other direction. Timothée does the exact opposite. Scooting down in his seat, he spreads his long legs out, leans an elbow on the edge of the window and shoots Armie a look that says, _come at me. I fucking dare you._

And it’s stupid, but Armie can’t let anything slide with this guy. It’s like he’ll die if he tries.

“I meant, where did you get it? it’s hideous. You look like a freaking stoplight”

“It’s Prada, and it’s fabulous, not that you would know, you caveman”

_Well, anyone can look like a caveman next to you._

“Prada? What, your parents just hand over their credit card and send you on your way?”

The wince that seems to pull at Timothée mouth doesn’t go unnoticed by Armie. It passes in a matter of seconds though, Timothée’s defiant expression back in check. 

“Yeah, isn’t that what your father does too?”

Armie doesn’t answer. Adjusting in his seat, he leans towards the windshield and stares at the pouring rain. Feeling a chill run through his body, he speeds up. His seat is getting soaked.

* * *

“Jesus Hammer, how many kids are you?” Timothée asks, leaning his head back in an exaggerated manner as he takes in the huge mansion before him.

“It’s just me,” Armie says, smacking the car door, rounding the back to pull Timothée’s bike out of the bed. In reality he’s not an only child, but it sure does feel like it.

“Seems like a waste of space,” Timothée answers, already making his way towards the house, completely ignoring Armie who’s struggling with his bike.

“I’m not your fucking servant,” Armie grumbles, leaning the bike against a tree before he follows Timothée.

Opening the front door, Armie slips through, not bothering to hold it for Timothée.

“Do you think anybody’s home?” Timothée asks, taking off his jacket but folding it over his arm. Armie doesn’t say anything, just acts as if he doesn’t notice. He can’t have Timothée littering all over his home. (Even though it doesn’t feel like _his_ and defiantly doesn’t feel much like a home.)

“Dunno,” Armie sniffles, wiping his nose in the wet sleeve of his hoodie.

Making his way through the house, Armie checks all the rooms they pass by. He’s aware that most people would just call out. Would most likely get a _how was your day?_ in return. But this isn’t a home, this is a house. A house where everyone moves quietly in the hopes of not disturbing someone who doesn’t want to be disturbed. He hasn’t sporadically called out to his parents in years.

“Mom-” Armie says when he spots her in the kitchen, talking to one of the employees.

“- Uh, this is Timothée. Timothée, my mother, Dru,” he says, gesturing a hand between them as he introduces them.

“Oh, hello there,” Dru says, pushing away from the counter she was leaning against.

“Armie has told me so much about you,” she says, reaching out a hand towards Timothée.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Hammer,” Timothée smiles, taking her hand and placing a kiss on top of it. _What the—who the hell does that any more?_

“What a polite young man,” Dru all but coos. Armie almost throws up. He doesn’t know what she’s playing at—she never shows interest in anything he brings home. And worse of all, he can’t figure out where that little shit from the car went.

“Armand, what happened to your clothes?” she chides.

He’s just about to make a less-than-polite comment about the fucking rain outside when Timothée answers instead.

“He insisted on getting my bike from the bike stands at school to put it in the back of his car. I told him not to, but you know him, he’s just too good,” Timothée says, smiling at Armie as if they’d suddenly turned best friends. _What the hell?_

“Yes, that defiantly sounds like Armand,” Dru says, her face looking weird as if she’s trying to look proud. She’s not very good at it. Armie’s had enough of this play to the gallery.

“We’re going to work on our assignment in my room,” Armie states, turning around and starting towards the stairs. He feels like the cold is seeping through his bones, all the way to the pit of his stomach.

“I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t touch anything,” Armie says as soon as they’ve made it to his room.

“I think between the two of us, you’re probably more contagious than I am right now, but fair enough,” Timothée says, plumbing down on the edge of Armie’s bed.

As if to prove Timothée’s point, Armie promptly sneezes, thankfully catching the snot in his elbow.

“Ugh,” Armie moans, kicking off his shoes and grabbing clean clothes before he goes to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Not that he thinks Timothée would actually come out there. But then again, he’s got a thing for catching Armie with his pants down.

Getting rid of his clothes, Armie throws it in a pile by the door. The hamper is in his bedroom, and usually, he would have taken the whole thing off out there but fuck no if he’s going to take off his clothes with Timothée quite literally on his bed. Who knows what kind of fucked-up impulses he might get?

The warm water is nice, and it does help a great deal with the tension in his freezing muscles. He almost turns on the cold water though, when a whole sequence of pictures flashes before his eyes. Dripping curls, an endless, pale neck, drowsy eyes and a deep, beckoning sigh of _“Armie”._

His cock jumps, a tight coiling heat gathering in his groin. Breathing out in despair, Armie closes his eyes. _He was doing so well. Hadn’t thought about anything bad since yesterday, hadn’t felt like he was suffocating. Fuck._

Getting out of the shower, Armie almost cries a little when his dick keeps jutting out in front of him. _Can’t he just get a break? Just one, freaking day without this—this, nightmare._

The guy is right outside the door, and here Armie is, his dick harder than ever. He feels sick. It’s one thing to fear his bodily reactions—another for them to actually happen.

Resolutely pulling on his underwear and sweatpants, Armie ignores his dick more determinately than he’s ever ignored something before. It works, and by the time he unlocks the bathroom door, the bulge in his pants is barely visible.

“Who’s this?” Timothée asks from the corner of the room. He defiantly didn’t stay on the bed and he defiantly didn’t not touch anything either.

Dumping his wet clothes and towel in the hamper, Armie looks up. “I told you not to touch anything.” Crossing the room to where Timothée stands, he pulls the framed picture from Timothée’s hands and places it face down on his desk.

“Yeah but who is it?” Timothée insists, sounding like a child that doesn’t understand rules and limits.

“My brother,” Armie grumbles, slumping down on his bed.

“But you just said that it’s just--” Timothée says, making himself comfortable on the bed beside Armie.

Sighing, Armie tries to make the images his brain supplies him with go away. It’s not hard to remember how he felt when his older brother packed up his bags. How he felt, when he had begged Viktor to take him with him, had promised not to be a bother, just “don’t leave me, please, please.” It’s not hard to recall the stinging in his chest from when the only kind person at home just gave him an apologizing look, shrugged as if he couldn’t do anything and left.

“He moved out when I was thirteen. That’s five years ago. So yeah, it’s just me,” Armie says, resting his head on a pillow. The only feeling remaining from that day, is resentment and disappointment.

“How old is he?” Timothée asks.

Scrunching his eyebrows together, Armie does the math. There’s four years between them.

“He’s twenty-two.”

Timothée doesn’t say anything. Just lays back, looking up at Armie’s ceiling, reaching his arms upwards again. It’s weird, but Armie is too relaxed to give a fuck. Just enjoys the rare fact that Timothée is quiet.

His bed starts to feel much softer than usual, the warmth emitting from Timothée suddenly not unwelcome any longer as his body starts floating, his mind drifting. They’re not touching, but there’s something grounding about the kid right now. _It’s odd—_ Armie thinks, -- _most times he makes me feel like a rocket about to launch. Right now, he makes me feel like I can’t move away—I’m not even scared. He smells so good—_

Giving up on the struggle, Armie closes his eyes. He doesn’t dream, not really. It’s all shapes and colors, feelings dominating his whole body and mind. It’s a mix of warm pink, red and orange hues, fluffy warmth and a calm that feels like safety. It’s like sinking, but in the arms of a loved one. The only comprehensible things swimming through his mind being _I want. I need. Tim._

When he comes back to consciousness, Armie is almost certain that he must’ve slept for hours. He can’t even bring himself to panic. He’s way too relaxed, the warmth of his comforter keeping him down, the dark grey skies outsides his windows making it easier to adjust to being awake.

Beside him is Timothée, typing away on his laptop, the glare of the screen the brightest thing in the room.

“Fuck,” Armie grunts, wiping at his mouth when he feels the wet sign of a really nice nap on the back of his hand.

Pushing the lid of his computer hallway closed, Timothée looks up at Armie, a smile on his face. _Maybe the laptop screen is only the second brightest thing in here. Alright Hammer, time to come back to earth._

“How long was I out for?” he asks, pushing up on an elbow.

“Just about an hour,” Timothée answers, his computer still halfway closed.

“Shit. We were supposed to--”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Timothée says, going back to whatever, he was doing on the laptop.

“Did you--” Armie begins, guilt starting to creep up on him. _Bad host. Bad partner, bad friend, bad son, bad—_

“figured you were much easier to work with when you were sleeping anyway,” Timothée grins, the usual glint back in his eyes. Armie sighs a little sigh of relief. At least Timothée doesn’t seem disappointed. He won’t have to anyway, Armie does that just fine by himself.

“Man, I’m really sorry,” Armie says, looking around, trying to orientate himself on the state of the world. He feels groggy and heavy. The one half of his comforter that he isn’t laying on top of has been folded on top of him, making him feel like a burrito of warmth, and no, he defiantly didn’t pull that on himself. Looking back up at Timothée, Armie feels a crushing warmth exploding inside of him. _Fuck. Timothée had cuddled him up with his comforter. Had made sure that he wasn’t cold. Had sat by his side while he was sleeping. Shit._

Laying back down, Armie blinks rapidly, before he resolves to squeezing his eyes shut tight.

When a slim hand comes to rest on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, Armie opens his eyes again. Timothée is looking down at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Figuring that this weird sort of kindness Timothée’s displaying right now isn’t something he should get used to, Armie pushes up from the bed again, pushing the covers aside. He needs to contribute too, otherwise Timothée will most likely just use this against him later.

“Can I have a look?” Armie asks, gesturing to the laptop.

“You don’t trust me?” Timothée asks, a faux look of indignation on his face.

“Should I?” Armie asks, taking the offered laptop.

Timothée just shrugs, cracks his knuckles and grunts as he leans back against the pillows behind him.

Armie comes to the conclusion that when it comes to interpreting and reflecting on literature, he can defiantly trust Timothée. And Armie isn’t completely uneducated or ignorant on this topic either, but yet again, the kid proceeds to make Armie feel like a complete imbecile.

“Looks good,” Armie says, pushing the laptop back towards Timothée.

“But?” Timothée asks, raising an eyebrow at Armie.

“Nothing,” Armie says, sitting upright.

“You’ve got nothing to add?” Timothée asks, incredulously. And no, Armie doesn’t have anything to add. Other than, _could you maybe stop being so god damn unreachable all the time?_

“Seems like you’ve got the important parts covered,” Armie answers.

“You sure you haven’t got a fever running or something?” Timothée jokes, closing his laptop and placing it on the floor. When he turns back towards Armie, Armie is almost nervous that Timothée’s gonna actually check his temperature or something. It makes a weird feeling pass through him. Timothée doesn’t do anything of the sort though, just pulls out his phone.

“I need a break,” Timothée states, rolling onto his stomach. Armie just watches him, trying to stay calm. Because Timothée is lying in his bed, just about thirty centimetres away from him. He’s lying there, on his stomach, scrolling through his phone as if he belongs there. And Armie wants to panic. He wants to stand from the bed and erase this from his brain. But he doesn’t. Instead he pulls out his phone and tries to ignore the warm feeling in stomach, the desire to scoot closer and bury his nose in Timothée’s neck. Fuck, how warm would he feel? Would he smell of fresh air and rain? Or would he smell of warmth and comfort? Armie can’t let himself find out. Can’t let himself think about this.

Scrolling aimlessly through Instagram, not really looking at anything, Armie tries to calm his breathing. It feels much safer to argue with the kid than have him rolling around in his sheets.

“You’ve got a follower request,” Timothée says, leaning towards Armie and tapping his screen.

“What?” Armie grunts, pulled out of his thoughts by the sudden intrusion.

“There, you have to accept it,” Timothée says.

“Who--” oh. Armie’s seen this account before. Has only lurked around once though, haven’t let himself do it again since last time.

“If you get to like my pictures, at least let me see yours too,” Timothée says, a cheeky grin on his face. Armie wants to die from mortification. He should’ve known that the little shit would bring this up when he least expected it. It’s scary how well Timothée is able to read when he’s let his guard down.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Armie croaks. He accepts the request and turns off the phone. Stands from the bed just to sit down by his desk. He’s an idiot. Every time he lets his guard down around Timothée, he starts worming his way in like the nuisance he is.

“What, you not hating my face as much as you want me to think?” Timothée asks, leaning back on his elbow and looking at Armie as if he’s got the world in the cup of his hand. In some ways, Armie is sure he does.

He’s just about to retort back to Timothée, when there’s a knock on his door. Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, Armie turns around in his chair, calls out “yeah?”

Several seconds pass before the door creeks open, his mother entering. That’s uncharacteristic. She rarely mingles around Armie, let alone goes to his room. Armie tells himself that she just isn’t interested in him.

“Am I disturbing?” she asks, wringing her hands together.

“No, not at all, Mrs. Hammer. We were just taking a break,” Timothée says.

“Well, I just wanted ask if you’d like to stay for dinner, Timothée?” She’s absolutely butchering the pronunciation and Armie almost tells her off for it. Better not. It’s clear as a day on Timothée’s face that he thinks the same thing, yet he doesn’t tell her to just call him Timmy. _Then it’s his own fault._

Just as Armie opens his mouth, saying, “no, Timothée’s busy, mom--,” Timothée says, “I would absolutely love to,” and Armie shuts up.

“Armand be nice and let your guests speak for themselves,” Dru chides. “That’s wonderful, Timothée. Now, I’ll let you boys get back to work,” she finishes, closing the door behind her.

Armie has to bite his tongue the whole time. 

“Why’d you do that?” he asks, as soon as the door has clicked shut.

“If I didn’t know any better, Armando, it would almost seem as if you don’t like having me around,” Timothée says, rolling back onto his stomach.

“And why would you think any differently? I’ve never given you any reason to do so,” Armie grunts, grabbing the laptop from the floor. _Except for the time that I tried to dry hump you on a dance floor._ Groaning, Armie tells himself that that was really just because he thought that Timothée was a very boyish girl. Plus, at that time, Timothée hadn’t opened his mouth yet, which, now that he has, Armie has a much easier time disliking him. _Yeah, you wish._

Anyway, he’s right back to wanting this to be over with, to not having to spend time alone with the kid anymore.

Timothée doesn’t answer. Armie suddenly feels a burst of pain in his stomach when he realizes that he might’ve just crossed an invisible line. That he might’ve succeeded in upsetting Timothée for real. But he can’t let himself feel like that, so he just goes back to his laptop and tries to rid himself of the nagging feeling of regret.

* * *

“So, Timothée. Armand tells me that you moved here recently, from New York,” Dru says, passing the potatoes in his direction.

Armie feels on edge, this whole situation so artificially homey he doubts that Timothée believes it for a second. And that’s the second thing—Timothée himself is being oddly nice and well mannered. Armie doesn’t know what is going on, but he feels like he’s caught in the middle of an awfully phony sham.

“Yes, we did. My aunt and uncle live out here and we wanted to be closer to them,” Timothée answers. It catches Armie’s attention, because this is new information. _You could’ve just asked him yourself, idiot. No, that would’ve given off the wrong impression. Then you could’ve probably asked Nick._

“That’s nice. Do you have any siblings?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s just me and my parents, mam,” Timothée answers, his voice weirdly off.

Looking down, he places his napkin in his lap. Armie just stares at the kid. It’s like he was just pulled out of a gala dinner with the freaking queen of England. Jesus.

“I hope they don’t mind us stealing you away for tonight, then,” Dru says, a smile on her face that Armie supposes is meant to be casual.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that,” Timothée says, scratching the corner of his mouth.

Armie is just about to say something about Timothée’s parents never having any rules, when the unmistakable sound of his father’s shoes appears, before the man himself enters the dining room.

Armie goes stiff in his chair, the hairs in the back of his neck standing. _What is he doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be home yet, was he? Fuck, he needs to be better at keeping track of these things._

“Think you can spare a seat?” Michael asks, his voice not nearly as cold as Armie has gotten used to.

“Michael,” Dru says, her voice just as surprised as Armie feels.

“Hello, darling,” Michael says, leaning down and kissing Dru on her cheek. Armie just watches, his breathing a little too shallow. Looking up, Michael makes eye contact with Armie. Armie doesn’t bat an eyelid, just keeps a straight face as the man of his worst nightmares smiles at him. _Smiles._

When he looks to the side, Timothée is watching the whole thing unfold intently, hands folded in front of him.

“Armie, please, introduce me to your friend,” Michael says. _Armie?_

“Dad, this is Timothée. We’re working on a school assignment together. Timothée, my father,” Armie says, his voice tense. _No matter how nice he acts, never mistake that for actual kindness._

“Nice to meet you, Sir,” Timothée says, standing from his chair and shaking the big palm offered to him. For a second, Armie feels sick by the thought of Timothée’s slight hand in the grasp of his father’s fist. But when he sees the firm force that Timothée puts into the greeting, Armie relaxes a little. _Take it easy. You know he’s not as weak as he looks._

“You’re home early,” Dru remarks, as Michael takes a seat in the chair next to her. Standing from her own chair, she puts a hand on his shoulder as she passes by, but instead of letting it rest there or patting it like you would do when you’ve been married for a lifetime, she just awkwardly pulls it back again. _This is a disaster,_ Armie thinks.

“Well, we were able to wrap up earlier than expected, so I booked the first available flight home,” Michael says, leaning back in his chair.

Armie almost burst out, _bullshit!_

 _“_ I’m afraid I’ll have to leave again tomorrow though. There’s some trouble with one of the new projects. Don’t ask, it’s incredibly boring, _”_ Michael continues.

 _There it is. He’s found a new pussy to play around with_. Armie knew this was too good to be true. Judging by the look in his mother’s eyes, she knew too. Not that Armie cares. It’s not like she ever cared about this family, as long as they look perfect on the outside. 

Looking at Timothée, the kid is already looking back at Armie, the corners of his mouth pointing upwards, but his eyes looking as if he’s searching for something. _Whatever it is, you better not let him find it._

“Timothée, tell me about your parents,” Michael says, taking a sip of the wine in front of him.

Timothée starts looking restlessly around the room as he takes a sip of his water. Placing his hands in his lap, he starts pulling at his fingers. It’s like the confident Timothée Armie knows has just left the building altogether.

“My dad is a high school teacher. Uhm, in math. And my mom is a pediatric nurse,” Timothée says. _How the hell does a high school teacher and a nurse afford Prada?_

“I see, does he teach at your school?” Michael asks.

“Uhm no, it’s uh—across town. Small place, you wouldn’t know it” Timothée says, scratching the corner of his mouth again. _Across town_. Armie wonders if he’s the only one who’s got lies across town.

* * *

The sky is black and filled with heavy greyish clouds when Armie follows Timothée outside. The air is chilly and smells fresh and clean. Breathing it in deep, Armie doesn’t even crave a cigarette, which, that’s kind of incredible after that dinner.

Watching Timothée put on his helmet, Armie almost considers asking him if he should drive him home. _Pfft. As if._

“You’re kind of starring,” Timothée says, zipping up his rain coat.

“I was just—just thinking,” Armie says, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants.

“That’s usually a good sign,” Timothée says, looking at Armie as if waiting for him to take the next step in this weird sort of who-can-piss-the-other-off-the-most dance.

“Fuck off man,” Armie says, not wanting to willingly hand over the last word to Timothée, but too drained to do this. 

“Oh, I’m fucking off, just give me a second,” Timothée says, adjusting the front light on his bike.

Straightening up, he looks Armie in the eye. Scratches his temple with a finger and opens his mouth as if to say something, just to close it shut again.

“Thank you for having me over for dinner,” Timothée says. “Even though you can’t stand me,” he grins. Armie doesn’t really think this is what Timothée actually wanted to say, but he lets it slide, gives the kid credit for finally seeming to filter what he says.

“Yeah, I really can’t,” Armie says, his voice not at all as hard as he would have liked it to be.

Timothée just shoots him a beaming smile. Turns halfway towards his bike, before he apparently changes his mind and spins towards Armie. Takes a step forward so fast that Armie barely registers what’s happening, before he’s got an armful of string bean and curls.

He’s too shocked to say anything. Just stands there and takes it, as Timothée holds him close, close, close. Slowly, almost cautiously, Armie lifts his arms and lets them circle around Timothée in a loose embrace. As if he doesn’t know how to do this but wants to try anyway. Timothée just tightens his arms even further, pressing his face into the space between Armie’s shoulder and neck. It’s like he’s squeezing all self-control and brainpower out of him, as Armie’s eyes slips shut, his face burrowing into Timothée’s shoulder. He smells like cologne and flowers. Armie’s stomach feels like butterflies and longing.

It probably lasts about a minute, before Armie remembers where they are. How many windows faces this way. How his parents haven’t gone to bed yet, how this is exactly what he shouldn’t be letting himself do. He drops his arms and pulls back, immediately mourning the loss of Timothée’s warmth.

Timothée doesn’t look at him, just grab his bike and pedals down the driveway.

Clearing his throat, Armie calls out, “See you tomorrow,” and immediately regrets it when it comes out like a question. As if he _wanted_ to see the kid tomorrow. He’s so incredibly confused. 

* * *

Back in his room, Armie stands by his desk and stares wide-eyed at the light pink sweater hanging across the back of his chair. It’s defiantly not his own. The color is wrong, and it is way too small. Not that Armie has held it up in front of him to check, no. He hasn’t touched it all. Doesn’t dare to. He contemplates texting Timothée, telling him that he forgot his mom’s sweater, but then again, his brain can’t deal with anymore Timothée today. He can already feel it melting out of his ears just by looking at the piece of clothing.

Pulling in a deep breath and shaking his head, Armie locks the door to his room. Pulls off his clothes and turns off the lights before he crawls into bed.

Pulling his favourite pillow beneath his head, Armie lets out a groan of frustration. The smell that hits him is the exact same as the one surrounding him when Timothée had hugged him. _Of fucking course. The kid had been lounging around in his bed the whole afternoon, effectively rubbing his smell into everything._

He should change the sheets. Get rid of the kid. Get him to fuck off from his brain. But he’s so tired.

Burrowing into his pillow, Armie tells himself that he can make this exception. He needs to sleep. It would’ve been much worse if he’d taken the sweater to bed. If he’d pushed his face into it and breathed in before hugging it close for the rest of the night. It would’ve been worse, and he didn’t do it.

The thing with the bedsheets though, he can’t really do anything about. So, he lets himself fall asleep, the smell of Timothée surrounding him, cradling him as a blanket of safety the whole night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and just being the best! During the next couple of chapters, things will start escalating for both of them, for real. So, stay tuned!


	7. Tell me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Armie just wants Timothée to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way you've been receiving this fic has just been overwhelming and incredibly supportive. I swear every comment makes me even more motivated about this fic than I already was. I bow down to the power of amazing readers. Thank you!
> 
> (I really wasn't supposed to post this so quickly, but I just can't sit on this chapter any longer.)
> 
> Trigger warning: assault/abuse, intense fear of dying, mention of past assault/abuse and child neglect

Monday morning, Armie carefully gets out of his bed. His stomach hurts so bad, he needs to squeeze his eyes shut as he scoots to the edge of the mattress. Wincing, he takes a break once his feet hit the floor. Breathing in and out through his nose, Armie waits for the pain to subside. Then, he pushes himself up from the bed. Stands still for a second when a pounding sensation bursts out in the back of his head. His immediate reaction is to bring his hand to the place where it hurts, but when he feels the swelling beneath his skin, he retracts his hand again. _Must be pretty bad._

Limping towards the bathroom, Armie groans when he tries to put his weight on his right ankle. Pain shoots up his shin, and he fears that the bone might snap and give in if he isn’t careful.

Huffing out a puff of air, Armie slowly sinks to the floor, afraid to make something hurt even more.

Sitting there, he takes a look at his ankle. It’s swollen, but not black or red. It’s just blue on top of the bone, and when he slowly tries to twist it around, back and forth, it hurts, but works just fine. _Good._

Scooting backwards with his hands and one good ankle, Armie makes it to the bathroom, where he turns on the light and pulls himself up by the sink. Today, he doesn’t want to prolong the process of locating his bruises. His whole body is aching, he knows that it’s bad already.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Armie feels the lump in his throat grow bigger and bigger, almost choking him. Sucking in his trembling bottom lip, he leans towards the bathroom mirror. Putting a cautious hand to his eyebrow, he inspects the cut on top of it while trying to ignore the wet eyes staring back at him. Surrounding it, is a blackening circle about the size of a fist.

Just looking at it, makes the first tear escape down Armie’s cheek. The second one follows suit when he flicks his tongue across his busted lip. It’s swollen and tastes like flesh and blood. He isn’t used to looking like this. Usually, his father is smart enough to avoid his face.

Looking down at his body, Armie lets out a whimper. It sounds like it’s pulled out of him by force and the wet hiss that follows when he prods the bruise on his hip disturbs the silence even further.

He looks like a human punching bag. All of his torso is littered with bruises. _No wonder it hurts so bad._

When he raises his head and inspects the person looking back at him, a sob breaks out, tearing its way through his chest as he hunches forward. Leaning on the sink, Armie drops his head between his shoulders and cries. The only sounds being sobs and sniffles bouncing around the bathroom walls, as he crumbles before his own reflection, snot and tears running down his face. It makes it hard to breathe, his abdominal muscles screaming every time he tries to take a deep breath. It’s like vicious spiral, where he can’t stop crying which makes everything hurt even worse, which in turn makes his tears fall even harder.

Sinking to the floor, he wraps his arms around himself as sobs rakes through his body, his mind going into overdrive in a loop of _why me, why me, why me,_ and _please, somebody please._

Desperately wishing for someone to come find him, to hold him close and take care of him, Armie can’t stop himself when it’s Timothée’s name that forms on his lips. Behind his eyes are the images of Nick too, but it’s as if his body automatically tries to call out for Timothée.

Armie doesn’t fight it, just lets himself imagine how, if this was a nice world, Timothée would walk into his bathroom right now. How he would crouch down by Armie’s side and pull him into his arms, rock him back and forth and tell him it’d be alright.

But it’s not a nice world, so Armie just holds himself and waits for the tears to stop. They do, eventually, when his mouth feels like a desert and his eyes feels raw.

He tries to limb back to his bed, mostly driven by anger. _The bastard did this to you. You won’t let him make you crawl across the floor too._ He makes it halfway, before the fear of snapping off his ankle becomes too great.

Back in the bed, Armie pulls the covers all the way up to his chin, trying to forget what happened to his body. What he would normally do on a morning like this, is to get out of the house as quick as possible. But he isn’t mobile enough to move through the house without anyone hearing him, and what is he even supposed to do once he makes it to his car? He can’t go to school, obviously.

He can’t go anywhere. He’ll just stay here, hopefully falling back to sleep.

* * *

Armie doesn’t fall back to sleep at all. He just lies in bed the whole morning and halfway into noon, thinking. Well, thinking might be underrated. He’s panicking. Because everything hurts way worse than they usually do, and he can’t seem to think straight. Can’t talk himself down and make a plan. _What if somethings broken? Or worse, what if somethings bleeding somewhere? His stomach looks so bad, what if he’s slowly dying from internal bleedings? And what about the back of his head? He might have a concussion, which means he defiantly shouldn’t go to sleep. He remembers once hearing about something called counter-coup-something, where your brain smashes around inside the skull so hard that you get a double concussion. What if he’s got that? What if he blacks out in a minute?_

The more he thinks about it, the surer he gets that there’s spots flying around before his eyes, that he can feel his brain swelling up. _Maybe he shouldn’t lay down._ Feeling his heart rate pick up, Armie starts tossing around restlessly. He knows he needs to calm down, but he’s having a hard time differentiating between his panic-attack and his body having a seizure. _You can get seizures from hitting your head, right? Shit, shit, shit._

Sitting up in the bed, Armie stars rubbing his thighs manically, his eyes wide as he starts breathing harder and harder. _It’s all in your head, easy, easy._

The sound of a shrill ringing cutting though the quiet room makes Armie jump.

It’s Timothée, of course it is. Armie cries out when he realizes that this is exactly what he’s been wishing for the whole morning, but now that he’s actually calling, Armie realizes that Timothée won’t care. He won’t know, because he can’t see Armie over the phone, and even if he could, he’d probably tell Armie to get help and fuck off. Because that’s what happened with his brother, so why wouldn’t Timothée do the same thing too?

Sniffling, Armie tries to clear his throat and breathe like a normal person who’s just slept in.

“Hello?” _Fail. You never just say hello to Timothée._

“Armie? You there?” Timothée asks, his voice sounding off.

“Yeah,” Armie clears his throat, “I’m here. What’s up?”

“Why aren’t you at school?”

“Uhm, I uh—I didn’t feel so good this morning,” _You sound about as convincing as a five-year-old saying “nothing” when asked what they’re doing._

“Uhuh- did you forget about our assignment? It’s due Wednesday and you said yourself that you’ve got practice tomorrow, so--” _Fuck, how could you forget about that? God dammit._

Not knowing what to say, Armie just looks down at his lap, fiddling with his comforter. “Uh, yeah, I know.”

There’s a silence on the other end, and Armie almost feels like crying, not knowing why. Maybe he just wants someone to know, someone to help and tell him that he’s not dying.

“Armie—are you okay?” Timothée asks, and it sounds like he’s cupping his hand around the microphone, as if he’s trying to keep whatever Armie’s about to say a secret.

“Uhuh. Yeah,” Armie croaks. What human being in the history of the whole world has ever been able to keep it together when asked if they’re _okay_? Certainly not Armie.

“Do you want to finish it up at your place? I can come over, it’s no big deal.” To Armie, it sounds as if something has happened to Timothée too. His tone is gentle, and he sounds like he’s being genuine. 

“No!” Armie blurts, panic surging through him. _Fuck no._ “I mean, I’m feeling much better already. We can just meet up at our place, it’s fine.” _So, it really is our place now, huh?_

He doesn’t really know why he suggested that. No way in hell will he be able to hide his bruises from Timothée. _Maybe I don’t want to either._ Yes. Maybe that’s it—maybe he’s too tired to put up the fight. Maybe he just wants Timothée to know. Suddenly, all Armie wants to do is run to Timothée.

“You sure?” Timothée asks, sounding unsure himself.

“Very,” Armie answers, holding his breathe.

“Well. See you in a couple of hours, then?”

“Yeah, see you,” Armie says, hanging up. His voice has gone thick and his hands are shaking. _What is he doing?_

* * *

In total, Armie spends one and a half hour getting ready. This includes limping to the bathroom at turtle pace, (he refuses to crawl across the floor again), taking a cold shower (winching through the whole thing), taking several breaks against the wall, getting dressed and breaking down crying twice. The first time when he splits his lip open again while brushing his teeth. The second time when he succeeds in pulling on his jeans, just to have them being too tight on his swollen ankle, which means that he’ll have to bend down with his sore abs and pull the tight jeans back off.

When he’s finally seated in his car, the doubt starts worming its way in. _This is too big of a risk. He won’t feel bad for you, he’ll just see you as the weak wimp that you are. You’re going to regret this._

Drowning out the usual background noise of his self-loathing mind, Armie starts the car. Pulls in a deep breath, (regrets it immediately when his abdomen starts to protest,) and pulls out on the road. He’s halfway there, when he starts feeling dizzy. His fingers and toes feel numb and his stomach is churning so violently, he fears he might need to pull over and throw up.

_Am I having a seizure? Or am I just nervous?_

Praying that it’s just nerves, Armie keeps going. When he pulls up in the parking lot, he can already see Timothée pacing back and forth beneath their tree. _Their tree._

Feeling vulnerability and emotions getting the better of him, Armie tries to swallow down the lump in his throat as a tear slips down his cheek. Quickly wiping it away, he spends a couple of minutes calming his breathing. It doesn’t work. When he looks up again, Timothée has started making his way towards the car.

Panicking, Armie throws the door open and tries to get out without crying out in pain. He’s shaking all over as he slams the door shut, making him drop his keys on the ground. Bending down, he can’t help the hiss that slips out.

“Armie?” Timothée calls, his voice much closer than Armie is prepared for. _This is it. You can’t take it back now._

“Yeah,” he says, standing up, aiming for the lock in the door.

“What are you doing?” Timothée asks, coming to a halt behind Armie. And Armie is so wound up that he can already feel his bottom lip trembling, his whole body vibrating.

“Just trying to—I can’t lock the door, it’s just, I’m so tired, I don’t think I can--” Armie rambles, voice breaking, his mind making zero sense.

Feeling a hand on his arm, Armie comes to a stop. When the hand doesn’t pull back but instead squeezes harder, trying to make him turn around, Armie’s brain goes quiet. It’s as if everything just shuts down completely. When he turns around, Timothée lets out a shocked gasp, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Armie just stands there, completely frozen. _There. He knows._

“Shit, what the fuck? Armie,” Timothée says, his voice sounding tight.

Armie stares blankly back at him and nods his head. As if saying _whatever you think right now, you’re probably right._

Reaching out a hand, Timothée grabs the bottom of Armie’s t-shirt, yanking it up so that he can see every bruise littering Armie stomach and chest.

“Please, don’t tell me you walked into a door, or that it happened at practice,” Timothée all but whispers, starring at Armie’s skin. 

“I won’t,” Armie croaks. “Because it didn’t.”

“No,” Timothée looks pained. “No, no, no. Please, no,” he chokes, letting go of the shirt and pulling Armie close. And it hurts, but Armie lets him do it, because Timothée isn’t telling him to fuck off. He sounds like he’s crying, and that means he cares, right?

“I’m fine,” Armie says, his own voice sounding far away. It’s like he’s trying to stop the fire he just started, from spreading. “I’m alright, don’t, Timo-”

“No, just stop talking, stop! You’re not fine, stop--” Timothée says, eyes darting around, taking in Armie’s beaten body.

Letting his arms fall limp by his sides, Armie swallows heavily.

“Come on, we can’t be here,” Timothée says, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Locking his arm tightly around Armie’s waist he starts guiding them towards the back of the old gymnasium. To be honest, it’s more Timothée dragging than Armie walking, but it’s fine, because Timothée is strong and Armie has needed someone to be strong enough to hold him for a while.

“Here, careful,” Timothée says, holding on tight to Armie as he helps him sit down against the wall of the old building. Out here, they’re all alone, and Armie almost deflates completely with relief. Relief that Timothée is still here. That he made it this far. That the whole school isn’t watching, even though most of them are gone by now.

Sitting down in front of Armie, Timothée takes his hands, covering them with his own warm ones. It reminds Armie about how his grandmother used to do the same thing when she wanted him to listen closely. 

“Tell me,” Timothée says, his face scrunched up, as if trying to keep himself together.

Armie doesn’t know where to start. From the beginning? That’s a long time ago, and it hadn’t always been like this. It had started with words, threads about toys and pets disappearing if he didn’t behave. Then, a slap across the face and without Armie knowing how, this is what it had evolved into.

“He was drunk, and it was probably my own fault. I should’ve known better,” Armie says, looking down at their hands.

Even though it’s not a lie, he’s not sure why he’s defensing his father. Maybe because admitting that your dad beats you up is bad but admitting that he doesn’t love you is so much worse.

Licking his lips and pulling in a breath, Timothée asks, “what did you do?” He gives Armie’s hands an encouraging squeeze.

Looking somewhere behind Timothée’s shoulder, Armie starts zoning out. He remembers coming home late -not too late, but late- and he remembers being tired, caught up in his own head. He remembers his father storming out of his office. Remembers his mother standing in the hallway, her face pulled in a tight frown.

“I talked back,” Armie answers. Another squeeze.

Timothée looks vary of his next question.

“And then?”

_“Where have you been?”_

_“At practice, I already told--”_

_“Don’t lie to me! You were with that faggot, weren’t you?”_

_“I don’t know who you’re talking about”_

_“Don’t you dare act as if I don’t know! I know what you are, you bastard,”_

“He punched me in the face,” Armie says, pointing at his busted lip, his voice completely void of feeling.

“How’s that your own fault, Armie?” Timothée asks, gently rubbing a thumb across the back of Armie’s hand.

“Because I know better. He doesn’t like it when people disagree, especially when he’s drunk, and he might’ve been upset about something, and—I don’t know.” Shrugging, Armie looks back down at their hands. Timothée’s are almost covering his hands completely, and it feels like the only thing grounding him right now. Armie sniffles again, and then one more time. His nose keeps running and his vision is getting blurry.

“What about your eye?” Timothée asks, scooting a little closer.

_“I bet you like it though, don’t you? Taking it up the ass, you nasty piece of shit,”_

_“Shut up!”_

_“I bet he doesn’t even want you for real, does he? He just plays around with you, doesn’t he? You stupid idiot,”_

Feeling his throat closing up, Armie bites his trembling bottom lip.

“I can’t, I-I, ‘m tired,” he chokes, tears starting to spill over again. _Is it possible to run out of tears?_

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Timothée says, immediately moving forward when Armie starts crying again, his shoulders shaking.

“I’m here. I’ve got you, I’ve got you right here,” he murmurs, leaning forward on his knees, arms enveloping Armie.

“It hurts, it hurts so bad,” Armie cries, hands clawing at Timothée’s arms, desperately trying to pull him closer.

“I’m sorry--” Timothée says starting pull back just for Armie to tighten his grip further, the sounds emitting from him a mixture between panicked breathing and broken sobs.

“Alright, hold on a minute.” Moving to the side, Timothée leans against the wall and then pulls at Armie until he’s in between Timothée’s legs, long slim arms holding him tight again. And it shouldn’t be possible for someone Timothée’s size to manhandle Armie. But it is, and right now, Armie feels sure that whatever big thing he loads onto Timothée, he’ll be able to take it.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” Timothée says, shushing Armie’s heaving sobs.

“I’m just so scared, because, because it hurts, my head, he—he, the floor, and it hurts so bad,” Armie hiccups, trying to pull Timothée’s attention to the back of his head.

“You hit your head on the floor?” Timothée asks, his own voice choking up.

Nodding, Armie points to the swollen place again, wincing when the movement makes pain throb through his skull.

“Alright, let me see, hold still,” Timothée says, trying to get a look at Armie’s head.

Moving around, Armie tries to sit still as Timothée carefully brushes his hair to the side, looking at his head. When he feels a careful brush of a finger against the sore spot, he feels another wave of tears welling up.

“You’ve got a bump, but I’m sure it feels much worse than it looks, alright?”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I promise. Come on, look at me, let me see your eyes,” Timothée says, pulling out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks, panic starting to rise. _Please don’t call anyone, please, please._

“I’m just going to check your pupils real quick,” he says, turning on the flash light.

“Now, just look straight ahead,” Timothée instructs, pointing the flashlight away from Armie. When Armie does as he’s told, Timothée quickly flashes him in the right eye with the flashlight, then the left.

“Your reflexes look fine. That’s a good sign,” Timothée says, putting the phone away, making Armie relax a little again.

“Focus on my finger and follow it with your eyes,” Timothée instructs, holding up af finger in front of Armie’s nose before slowly moving it closer to Armie’s face, making him go perfectly cross eyed.

“Have you thrown up since it happened? Blacked out?”

“No, but I’ve wanted to,” Armie sniffles, letting himself be pulled back against Timothée’s chest.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Timothée asks. And Armie appreciates it, but the thought alone nearly scares him into running. If could, that is.

“No,” he answers. Then, “how do you know all these things?”

“My mom was a pediatric nurse, remember?” Timothée says, resting his head on top of Armie’s.

“Is,” Armie corrects.

“What?”

“You said was.”

“Oh, right. Is. She is a nurse,” Timothée says, lightly shaking his head.

They’re quiet for a while, Timothée shushing Armie when sudden bursts of tears break through, Armie trying to push further and further into Timothée until they’re effectively clinging to each other.

“It’s not your fault. You know that, right?” Timothée says, his lips pushed into Armie’s hair.

Armie just shrugs.

“No, don’t give me that. It’s not your fucking fault, Armie,” Timothée says, his voice taking on an edge of something. Armie thinks it feels like anger.

“How do you know that?” Armie asks, feeling a single tear slide down his cheek, coming to a stop at the corner of his mouth. Everything tastes like salt by now and his eyes hurt.

“Because you’re perfect just the way you are. Because he’s a sick bastard who needs to be locked up for the rest of his life, and I’ll gladly see to it myself, you hear me?” Timothée says, tightening his arms, jostling Armie a little as if to shake the words into Armie’s skull. And yeah, Armie does hear him, and he doesn’t like what he’s saying one bit.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Armie says, feeling panic start to rise.

“What are you talking about? This needs to be reported, we need to--”

“No. No, stop. You can’t tell anyone, it’ll make everything much worse, he’ll make it so much worse.”

“Do you even hear yourself? How long has this even been going on?”

“You don’t understand, he’ll just win this too, he always wins!”

_I should’ve though about this. Fuck! Why wouldn’t he tell on me? He’s got no reason not to._

“That’s why I’m going to help you! I’m not going to fucking act as if I don’t know, as if--”

“I’m never speaking to you again if you do it. If you ever, speak to a living soul about this to anyone, I won’t even know your name,” Armie says, his voice hard and cold. This is his only joker. The only thing he’s got on Timothée, is the frail hope that he means something to Timothée too.

“Alright. Okay. I won’t, I—I promise, okay?” Timothée says, holding up his hands and looking like someone who’s afraid of scaring a wild animal into fleeing.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Looking Timothée in the eyes, searching for any trace of lies, Armie relaxes his shoulders again. He believes him.

“Come back?” Timothée asks, opening his arms.

Scooting back, Armie relaxes into Timothée’s embrace. It’s the best place he’s been yearning for since last night. Since weeks ago. 

They sit like that for a while. Sometimes, Armie thinks he feels lips pressing into his hair, but then the feeling is gone as fast as it came, and he tells himself that he’s just imagining things.

At one point, he feels brave and takes Timothée’s hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. Timothée lets him, just rubs his thumb across Armie’s hand and squeezes.

Every time a doubtful thought enters his mind, Armie roars back at it and shuts it down immediately. This is the first time he’s felt so safe in years, and he won’t let himself ruin it. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

When his eyes start slipping shut, Timothée murmurs into his hair, “you falling asleep on me?”

“No,” Armie says, no doubt sounding like someone who’d just fallen asleep.

“Alright, I’m taking you home,” Timothée says, pushing at Armie to make him move.

“Home?” _What home? His? Timothée’s?_ Armie doesn’t know which one sounds worse.

“With me,” Timothée clarifies.

“Can’t you just drop me off at my place?”

“What, and leave you to that piece of shit?”

“He won’t be there,” Armie says. At least, he doesn’t think so. He isn’t one hundred percent sure, but Timothée doesn’t need to know that.

Timothée just squints his eyes and looks intently at Armie while clearly debating the matter with himself.

“Fine, we’re going to yours. But I’m going in with you,” he says, his voice leaving no room for debate.

“What? No, you don’t have to do that, I’ll be fine,”

“I didn’t ask, Armie. Come on. It’s either that, or you’re coming home with me. Now which one is it going to be?”

“Fine. But I’m telling you, I would be fine on my own.”

“Listen, if you wanted to do this alone, you shouldn’t have told me.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Timothée drives them home. When Armie starts making his way to the driver’s seat, Timothée gives him a stern look and tells him to, “please get into the passenger’s seat. I can’t even stand to think about the fact that you drove here by yourself in the first place.” And Armie relents. It’s probably the first time he’s sitting in his car without driving himself though, and he doesn’t like it. _Well, at least Timothée’s wearing regular sneakers today. Plus, my head does hurt an awful lot._

When Timothée suddenly makes a detour that certainly isn’t on the way to Armie’s place, Armie panics. “Where are you taking me?” Timothée just shoots him a glance, places a hand on Armie’s thigh and says, “relax. I’m getting us some food. Did you eat today?” And Armie realizes that no, he didn’t. Might explain some of his headache.

He’s not really hungry though. Or, he is, but when Timothée comes back to the car, a bag of takeout that smells like grease and carbs in hand, Armie feels his nausea well up again.

_Just eat it. You know it’s just because you haven’t eaten since last night._

When Timothée hands over a burger, Armie just stares at it. His stomach is rumbling, but he feels sick. Timothée looks at him for a second, before he pulls forth a bottle of coca cola, screwing off the cap and hands it to Armie. “Try and have a sip first,” he says, waiting for Armie to take the bottle.

It does help. The cold, fizzy, sugary drink makes his mouth come alive again, and the burger before him doesn’t look like something that might make him throw up anymore. They eat in a silence, save for Armie’s sniffles when his lip starts bleeding again. Timothée immediately puts his food down and proceeds to find a napkin. Taking Armie’s face in his hands, he carefully holds the tissue to the cut, eyes scanning Armie’s face. When his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on Armie’s face, Armie is trying with all his might to hold back tears, because this is just so much. So much hurting, so much relief. So much kindness end tenderness and Armie has never ever had anyone help him with his bruises before, and Timothée is just there, not even having to ask Armie in order to know what to do.

Once they’re parked in Armie’s driveway, they just sit there for a couple of minutes. Timothée is starring at the house in front of them, looking as if he’s thinking. Armie is nervously fiddling with his hands, restlessness increasing steadily. _What if he’s right inside the door? What if he’s just waiting for Armie to come back? What if—what if he hurts Timothée?_

“Please just let me go in by myself,” Armie ends up saying.

Timothée looks at him fiercely. Pulls out the key from the ignition, says, “no way,” and opens the car door.

“But--” Armie begins, feeling anxiety rising.

“Armie,” Timothée says, leaning back into the car, looking Armie in the eye. “He won’t hurt me, and he won’t hurt you, not as long as I’m there. The only reason he’s got the balls to touch you, is because you would never report it. Now, I on the other hand, have no reason not to, not as far as he’s aware. Just trust me, alright?”

Armie just nods weakly. To some extent, he follows Timothée’s logic. But then again, he knows better than to trust his father’s reasoning.

Opening the front door, Armie is sure that it creaks way louder today than it usually does. His stomach is churning and for a second he regrets having eaten anything. His ankle still hurts and has started throbbing from being in a bad position the whole day. Timothée’s arm is tightly secured around his waist, Armie’s left hand clutching the slim shoulder that helps him standing upright.

“You’ve got it?” Timothée asks, as Armie carefully pushes the door closed. His voice is a strained whisper, and Armie almost feel like they’re breaking and entering, but they’re not. They’re just trying to get to his room, without being caught.

Armie nods, and starts hobbling forward, trying not to lean all of his weight onto Timothée. They must look absolute ridiculous like this. A giant, being half-dragged by someone who mostly resembles something like a ballerina. If it weren’t for his overworked brain, Armie would feel embarrassed. But all he feels is gratitude and awe.

As quietly and quick as possible, they make their way towards the staircase. The house is completely silent, safe for Armie’s grunts and Timothée encouraging words of, _almost there._ It almost makes the fear manifesting in Armie’s body even worse. As if his father will appear out of thin air any minute.

It’s when they stand in front of the huge staircase leading upstairs, that Armie wishes that they’d just gone to Timothée’s. _Fucking hell._

“Think you can get up there?” Timothée whispers, subconsciously tightening his arm, as if getting ready to just carry Armie himself.

“Just-- if I can hold on to the banister, maybe,” Armie whispers back, already moving towards the side of the staircase.

They’re halfway at the top when Armie needs a break. Slumping down on one of the steps, he heaves in a breath, trying to suppress the urge to cry and scream. His whole foot hurts like a bitch, and he feels embarrassed. Because he should be angry, he should be furious at his father, but he’s not. He’s scared shitless and he’s _hurting._

“Armie, man. You’ve got to get up. Come on, we’re almost there, you’re so close,” Timothée says, gripping Armie’s hand in a tight hold. It gives Armie the last burst of willpower that he needs, and when he hauls himself up by the banister, he focuses on tightening his jaw, the feeling of Timothée’s hand the grounding point of focus that he needs.

As soon as he makes it to the top of the stairs, Timothée’s arm is back in place, holding Armie upright as they make it across the hallway, into Armie’s room.

“Come on, lay down on the bed. That’s it, you made it. Fuck, we made it Armie,” Timothée puffs, his voice back to normal loudness.

Helping Armie sit down on the bed, he blows a curl away from his face. Armie is thankful, because he was this close to brushing it behind Timothée’s ear himself.

“The door. Lock the door,” Armie says, knowing that as long as the door is unlocked, they might as well have stayed on the stairs.

“Fuck, of course,” Timothée mutters, immediately getting up and locking the door. He’s halfway back to Armie, when he turns around and goes to the dresser standing against the wall instead. Standing at one end of it, he places both palms against it and pushes with all of his weight until it’s standing directly in front of the door.

Then he rakes a hand through his hair and makes his way over to Armie again. His face is flushed, and Armie feels bad for literally putting all of this on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Armie says, his voice quiet. Timothée is sitting in front of him, working on the shoelaces on Armie’s bad foot.

“Don’t apologize Armie, I already told you, it’s not your--”

“No, I meant for telling you. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

Looking up at Armie, Timothée stills. Carefully putting Armie’s foot back down, Timothée gets back onto the bed where he pulls Armie into a hug.

“Do you have any idea how glad I am that you came today? That you didn’t stay here, that you chose to tell me instead?” Timothée asks, his arms wrapping around Armie’s shoulder and back.

Armie just nods his head, feeling raw with emotion.

“Never ever apologize for telling me, because I won’t have it,” Timothée continues, pulling back again.

Clearing his throat, Armie watches Timothée get back to the shoe. “Alright,” he croaks.

It hurts when the shoe comes off, but Armie is sure that it would’ve been much worse if he would’ve had to do it by himself. At least, this way, Timothée has loosened the shoelaces as much as possible, holding the ankle as steady as possible as he slowly pulls it off. Rolling the bottom of Armie’s sweatpants up, Timothée carefully wriggles the sock off too. It looks worse than it did this morning, and Armie knows that he should’ve kept it at rest instead of walking around.

“That looks pretty sore,” Timothée states, carefully running his cool fingers over the sensitive skin. It feels good, and Armie can’t help the slight moan of relief he lets out.

“Lie back, I’ll get you something cold,” Timothée says. Helping Armie get all the way up onto the bed, Timothée grabs a couple of pillows and props up the ankle.

“Do you think it’s sprained?” Armie asks, letting out a hiss as Timothée places a cold washcloth on his ankle.

“Possibly, maybe just twisted badly. It probably got way worse from being walked on,” Timothée says.

Lying back, Armie enjoys the cold sensation on his foot, the feeling of Timothée’s fingers wrapping around it, holding it steady.

“Where’s your mom?” Timothée suddenly asks, his eyes wide.

Armie just shrugs. “Doing what she usually does. I don’t know.”

“Does she know about this?”

Swallowing, Armie nods. “Yeah.” At this, Timothée’s eyes visibly darkens.

“I’m staying the night,” Timothée declares, getting up and pulling off his jacket, kicking off his shoes.

_What? No. I can’t have him here, not the whole night. What if—what if I start to feel something I shouldn’t? what if accidentally give in? What if my father finds him here, in my bed? Then he’d be right._

“What? no, Timothée, please, you’ve helped plenty, and I’m fine now, it’s all good, really--”

“Shut up, Armie. I’m not going. And you can’t make me, not with that ankle,” Timothée points out, removing the now warm washcloth.

Well, he’s right about that one. _Fuck._

“You should get your shirt off, get under the covers,” Timothée says as he comes back with a cold cloth. “Here, let me help you.” Taking a hold of Armie shirt, he starts pulling it up.

“No, I can—I can do it myself,” Armie says, closing his eyes tight for a moment. He can’t have Timothée undress him. _He can’t._

Pulling the shirt off, he deliberately doesn’t look down at his own body. He knows how he must look. If anything, Timothée is the perfect prove of that. His eyes are welling up again, and Armie doesn’t understand how _Timothée_ of all people is the one crying all the time.

_Because he’s so much better than you give him credit for._

It’s not until they’ve turned off the lights, Timothée double checking that the door is locked on Armie’s request, that Armie remembers the reason why Timothée wanted to meet up.

“Shit, what about our assignment?” Armie blurts.

“Don’t worry about that. Just consider it finished,” Timothée says.

It’s a mixture of relief and guilt that swims in Armie’s stomach at that.

“I’m sorry for being such a bother.”

“Please stop saying that,” Timothée says, his voice dead serious.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s a deep sigh in the darkness. “Armie-”

“I know,” Armie says. _Stop apologizing. He thinks you’re annoying when you do that._

They’re quiet after that. Armie is beneath the covers, ankle propped up on the pile of pillows, Timothée sitting beside him, leaning against the headboard. His eyes are slipping shut, when suddenly a thought makes all the alarm bells go off inside of his head. _What if I don’t wake up again?_

Swallowing, Armie tries to put a damper on his sudden anxiety. It doesn’t help, and when his breathing starts getting heavier, Timothée moves beside him.

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?” Timothée asks, his voice sounding far from being asleep.

Armie swallows again. _What the hell. He’s been cool with everything this far._

“I’m scared,” he croaks, his voice tight.

“Of you father? Armie, I swear if he tries to get in here,--”

“No, not that. I know it’s stupid, but—but, what if I don’t wake up? My head, you know, and, and,”

Trailing off, Armie regrets saying anything. He sounds so stupid. Timothée must be getting sick of his whining.

There’s some rustling and then he feels his pillow being dragged a little to the side, effectively moving his head to side too. Then, there’s a hand in his hair, fingers slowly carding through the strands.

“I know. But you can go to sleep, Armie. I’m right here, I’ll keep an eye on you. Just sleep now,” Timothée murmurs, his voice almost sounding like a mother’s trying to comfort her child.

So, Armie sleeps. Sometimes, he wakes up, just to have fingers brushing through his hair, a hand squeezing his own until he’s back to sleep again. He’s out cold for most of the time though, so he doesn’t notice how, while his own tears have stopped, Timothée’s have started.

How, as he lies there asleep and seemingly peaceful, Timothée is carefully pulling back the covers, snapping pictures of the fresh evidence littering Armie’s body. How he’s biting the inside of his cheek to hold back the sounds of his heart shattering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a big chapter for me in more ways than one, and I've been back and forth regarding how I feel about it. So, I would love to hear what you guys think. (Who am I kidding, I'd always love to know)  
> Tumblr: Kiros18


	8. A little easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck, Armie. It’s you. Don’t you see? He sticks around because of you,” Nick says, looking more sad than angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weather here has been quite depressing the whole day, and it seems like the sun just forgot to rise all together. So, I've been trying to bury myself in fic and thought I'd share some of it with you.  
> So, here's to friends like Nick and hoping that your day has been a little brighter than mine <3
> 
> Trigger warning: intense internalized homophobia, mention of abuse

When Armie wakes up on Tuesday, it’s to the feeling of something heavy holding him down. Something warm that puffs air against the nape of his neck and smells like sunshine. _It’s so nice. Sooo comfy and warm and--_

Blinking his eyes open, Armie realizes two things.

One: He’s still alive. _Thank fuck._

Two: The heavy thing holding him down, is Timothée. His arm is thrown across Armie’s torso, a hand resting on top and his leg pushed in between Armie’s. _Crap._

Jolting upwards, Armie starts scooting away from Timothée, panic and the hazy state of his mind making him forget all about his ankle. That is, until he stands from the bed, putting all of his weight on it. The sudden burst of pain that shoots out from the twisted joint makes him cry out in pain. It wakes up Timothée, who jolts upright too, hair sticking out in a thousand directions, his eyes frantically searching the room.

“What? Armie, what--” Looking at Armie who’s clutching his ankle, his face screwed up in pain, Timothée visibly let’s go of a relieved breath.

“What happened?” he asks, scooting over to look at Armie’s ankle.

Carefully letting go, Armie lets Timothée have a look.

“I just forgot about it,” Armie mutters, his jaw still locked tight.

“How did you even manage that?” Timothée asks, removing one of Armie’s hands. “It looks better, don’t you think? I think the swelling is gone.”

“Mhmhmm,” Armie hums, falling back onto the bed. He’s been awake for ten minutes and he’s already been through half the gamut of emotions.

“What time is it even?” Timothée asks, reaching for his phone.

“Man, you’re an early riser. It’s only ten minutes to six.” Putting his phone away, Timothée lies down next to Armie.

“I never sleep well after--” Armie starts, then stopping himself. Yesterday was alright, but today he needs to stop with the oversharing. Surely, Timothée will reach a limit for how much he wants to be involved in this. Besides, the more Armie shares these things, the more real they’ll be.

“After he hits you?” Timothée asks quietly, turning his head to look at Armie. Reaching out a hand, he tries to take Armie’s hand in his own.

Removing his hand, Armie hums in confirmation. _Deal with the consequences later, remember? This is later. Stop with the touching._

Pulling his hand back, Timothée looks the other way.

“What do you want to do today?” Timothée asks.

Shrugging, Armie starts tugging at a loose piece of skin on his thumb. “Probably just stay in here and try and sleep some more.”

“Sounds fine by me. Do you want to watch something?” Timothée asks, already moving further up the bed, trying to get comfortable.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you going to school?” Armie asks, a confused frown on his face. _It’s bad enough that I’m skipping for the second day in a row. I can’t drag him down with me too._

“You honestly think I’m leaving you here?” Timothée huffs, fluffing a pillow.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but this isn’t the first time I’m dealing with this and I’ve been fine so far,” Armie says, feeling his chest tighten. _He’s trying to help. Don’t be an ungrateful idiot._

Coming to a stop, Timothée looks at Armie, a look on his face that tells Armie that even this early in the morning, Timothée won’t back down without a fight.

“Well I’m sorry to break it to you too, but you’re not fine.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you play hooky here all day. It’s your last year, you need to show up,” Armie argues, trying to adapt the defiant look on Timothée’s face. _The kid is probably immune to it himself._

“It’s your last year too,” Timothée points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes, but I can’t exactly show up like this now, can I?” _Can’t he just for once, listen?_

“No,” Timothée says, tapping a finger on his forearm. “Not unless we cover it up,” he continues, his face breaking into a smug grin.

“And how would you do that? I look like fucking hit and run,” Armie deadpans.

“Believe it or not, but I can do a trick or two with a makeup brush,” Timothée says, a proud glint in his eyes. _No way in hell am I doing that. Is he serious? He’s defiantly crazy._

“No fucking way, we’re not doing that. I’ll look like a beat-up housewife. Where would you even find any?” Armie asks, his voice taking on an edge of incredulousness.

“We’ve got some at my place and besides, I’m good at it. Nobody would be able to tell,” Timothée says, looking as if he’s way too hooked on the idea. _He’s just doing this for shits ang giggles._ Armie tells himself, eyes narrowing in on Timothée. “I’m not playing make over with you.”

_Or, he’s legitimately trying to help you?_

“Fine, then we’re both staying here for the rest of the week,” Timothée says, pulling his shoulder as if he couldn’t care less. His voice though, sounds like he’s trying to blackmail Armie.

Plopping back down onto his pillow, Armie stares up at the ceiling. He feels beyond annoyed. He knows that he should just shut up and be thankful. Remember how lucky he is to finally have someone who wants to take care of him, no matter how weird that feels. _I’m just so used to being alone._

Sighing out of annoyance, Armie tries to get Timothée’s attention. It doesn’t work. _How stupid is the kid even to risk his grades because of this? It’s not even like there’ll be anyone home besides Armie._

Rolling onto his side, Armie tries to clear his mind, make the frustration go away.

_Why are you so worked up? He’s just being there for you, just like you wanted him to be._

_Because he’s acting as if I’m much more important than himself,_ Armie grumbles at his own thoughts.

_Then go with his plan. It’s not even as stupid as you want it to be._

_Fine. Then I’ll go to school, looking like a caked-up piñata if that’s what he wants me to do._

“For fucks sake. Do you promise that it won’t look ridiculous?” Armie asks, throwing his hands to the sides.

Sitting straight up in the bed, already starting to scoot out, Timothée says, “promise! Now come on, we should get out of here.”

They get out of bed. Armie wants to take a shower, to which Timothée objects, asking if Armie is sure that’s a good idea. Armie informs him that he did just fine yesterday, so if anything, he should be able to handle himself today too.

That results in Timothée muttering under his breathe, that “this is the last fucking time that you will ever have to deal with something like that on your own,” and Armie acts as if he didn’t hear that. Because what is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do? He can’t move away from home. He’s still in high school. He’s got no real money himself. He’s one hundred percent economically reliant on his father. And where would he go anyway? There’s no place on earth that his father wouldn’t be able to find him. _And that’s just you assuming that you’re important enough to be looked for._

So no, Armie doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t dare say anything, because his throat is closing up again, and fuck, the emotions from yesterday are still right beneath the surface.

So, he takes a shower. Timothée hovers right behind him the whole way out there, and Armie knows that he’s ready to catch him any minute but doesn’t say anything. Just turns around and raises an eyebrow in question when he’s made it to the bathroom (on his own, thank you very much).

“It gets slippery out there. You could fall,” Timothée says as if it’s no big deal. And it probably isn’t, not to him anyway. But to Armie, it’s the biggest deal in the world. Even if both his legs were broken, he wouldn’t let Timothée help him get undressed. Wouldn’t let him stand naked beneath the water with him, probably holding onto him and no, Armie would never let himself say yes to that.

“I think I can manage, thank you,” Armie says, waiting for Timothée to leave.

It’s takes about half a minute, with Timothée starring at him, his beautiful face set in a hard frown.

“Fine,” he says, finally turning around and leaving.

Sighing in relief, Armie closes the door and turns the lock. That immediately results in Timothée calling from right outside the door. “Are you crazy? Don’t lock the door, man. What the fuck am I supposed to do if you actually do slip and bang your head?”

Hesitating for a moment, Armie leans his head against the door.

_He’s right, and you know it. Just relax, he’s not going to get out here._

So, Armie unlucks the door again. Then he makes the laborious way into the shower, where he concentrates extra hard not to fall. _How fucking embarrassing would that be? Timothée coming out here just to find your stubborn naked ass unconscious on the floor_.

* * *

They make it surprisingly smoothly down the stairs. There’s still no one anywhere near in sight, except when they make it past the living room where a lamp is turned on, and Armie is almost sure that he sees the shadow of his mother.

Out in the car, Timothée gets behind the wheel again. It’s not without protests from Armie, but when Timothée keeps holding the door in the passenger side open for Armie to get in, stating that, “you don’t even know the way to my place. Plus, it might not even be legal to drive around with that ankle of yours,” Armie relents.

The way to Timothée’s place takes about twenty minutes. It’s downtown, and when Timothée parks the car, they’re in the middle of a street, tall buildings on both sides.

“I’ll be right back,” Timothée says, getting out of the car. He crosses the street, and Armie watches him get into one the buildings. It looks fancy, the façade made of tinted glass, trees towering in competition with the building.

He wonders what floor Timothée lives on. How long he’ll take. It’s the first time he’s by himself since yesterday afternoon, and it feels weird to be alone with his own thoughts. His own feelings.

He quickly realizes, that when he doesn’t have to keep it together for the sake of Timothée, he feels raw and vulnerable. It hits him all at once, that he’s not alone in this anymore. He told someone, and that someone is currently inside a strange apartment building, probably looking for his mother’s make-up purse, because he wants to help Armie cover up his bruises. So that Armie doesn’t have to be alone. That that someone hadn’t looked at Armie as if he was crazy when he told him that he was afraid of dying. Not once had he laughed or rolled his eyes at Armie’s panic.

He’d just held him, assured him, and now he’s trying to protect him. Curling in on himself, Armie puts a fist to his mouth when a whimper bubbles to the surface. _He’s not alone anymore._

When Timothée exits the building again, he’s changed into green cargo pants and a grey hoodie, a black cap disguising his bed hair. He looks like they’re about to go on a hike, but Armie knows that this is actually Timothée downgrading his own vanity in order to be there for Armie. Quickly wiping at his face, Armie sniffles as if trying to suck the tears back in.

“Found it,” Timothée says, dumping what looks like an oversized purse in Armie’s lap. He’s somewhat relieved that it’s made of black cotton and not pink sequins or something.

Closing the door, Timothée turns towards Armie without looking at his face.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got,” he says, unzipping the oversized purse and starts rummaging. Armie doesn’t even want to see what’s in it.

“Nice. We’ll start with this one,” Timothée says, pulling out a small white tub. Unscrewing the lid, he scoops up a glob of some white, transparent-ish substance. Armie thinks its lotion, he’s not sure.

“What is that?” Armie asks, his nose wrinkling when Timothée starts applying the cold substance on his face.

“It’s just a face cream. It’ll make it easier to get a nice and even layer to work with,” Timothée says, carefully smoothing his fingers over the cut by Armie’s lip. The feeling of Timothée’s delicate hands smoothing over his face is so nice and welcome that Armie starts welling up. _It feels so good and yet I can’t let myself enjoy it. Can’t let myself want this, because that’ll mean that I’m ruined. I want—I want so much, and I can’t have it._

When Timothée moves on to Armie’s eyes, he comes to a stop when he notices Armie’s glistening eyes, the pull between his eyebrows. He seems to be holding his breath for a second, his hand frozen mid-air.

Then, he continues with the lotion. “Don’t you want to know how I became so good at this?” Timothée asks, his eyes leaving Armie’s to concentrate on the task at hand.

_Thank you._

“How did you learn to do make-up?” Armie croaks, accepting the ball that was just thrown into his court.

“You’re not gonna believe it, but my gay ass actually had a girlfriend in middle school. Her name was Florence. We used to watch tutorials together, practicing on each other,” Timothée says, closing the lid on the tub again. Switching it out with a rectangular, glass-like one, he pumps out something a little more liquid-y, skin-colored stuff.

“Why would you have a girlfriend?” Armie asks.

Timothée shrugs. “It’s not like I knew that I was gay. Not like that anyway. I just liked to hold hands and hang out,” Timothée says, applying another layer to Armie’s skin.

“Didn’t your father want you to play with boys’ stuff instead?” Armie asks. He regrets it immediately. He knows how that sounded, knows how Timothée will be able to figure out that Armie never had that choice. Not that it ever interested him, but he knows for sure that it wouldn’t have been allowed.

Timothée stops what he’s doing, getting a faraway look on his face, as if he’s not really present for a moment. Then, he snaps out of it. “My father didn’t give one iota what I played with, as long as I stayed safe and curious.”

“Sounds nice,” Armie says, his voice disappearing halfway into the sentence.

Timothée doesn’t answer, just continues whatever he was doing with Armie’s face.

It’s when Timothée gets to work on Armie’s black eye that the emotions get the best of him.

The skin is so sore and sensitive, and Timothée’s is so, so careful.

Sniffling, Armie rolls his eyes upward, trying to keep the tears at bay. When the first one escapes down his cheek, he doesn’t get to wipe it away before Timothée catches it with his thumb, wiping it in his hoodie. Then, the next one follows, and the next one after that, and suddenly his throat hurts and Timothée doesn’t say anything. He just holds Armie, a hand running up and down his back in a soothing pattern. “You must be exhausted,” Timothée says, effectively putting Armie’s feelings into words. Armie nods against his shoulder, clutching a fistful of hoodie in his hand. “But I’m here now and I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Timothée continues, holding Armie tight. The sobs that follow sounds like they’ve been pulled out from some place very deep inside of Armie’s chest and the tears running down his cheeks ruins half of Timothée’s work.

* * *

"You sure you want to go in?” Timothée asks, turning towards Armie, a worried look on his face.

Armie clears his throat. Looks at himself in the rear-view mirror one last time. His face looks normal again, save for his swollen upper lip. He’s got to admit, Timothée did keep his promise about not making him look ridiculous. “I’m sure,” he says, opening the side door.

_The quicker I’m back to normal, the quicker I’ll stop feeling like this. Like I can’t look someone in the eye without crying. Like my life has just been turned upside down, when in reality, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Now, Timothée’s just knows and that’s that._

They’re headed to class when Saoirse sidles up beside them. Armie feels his muscles tense up, because what if someone’s able to tell, despite their hard work at covering up his bruises?

But then, Saoirse barely looks at him, just throws a smile in his direction.

“You busy after school today?” she asks, nudging Timothée in the side.

“Sorry Sersh, we’re way behind with our English assignment,” Timothée says, not even pausing to make up the lie. It makes Armie wonder how often he does that, without being caught.

“Aw man. Call me later then?” she asks, already speeding up her steps, walking away.

The next person to approach them is Henry, asking if Armie’s feeling better today. And Armie is on the edge already, so he drops one of the books in his hand. Before he can try and bend down without giving the state of his abdomen away, Timothée has picked it up for him.

“Yeah the douche made that up, he wasn’t sick at all” Timothée says, rolling his eyes.

“Came over to his place after school, just to find him sleeping.”

Finally catching on, Armie joins the act. Groans and shoves Timothée lightly. Not hard enough to steer him too far away, but hard enough to make it look like he’s annoyed by him.

“What the hell you’ve been doing all night? You getting it on with that freshman of yours?” Henry laughs, looking like this is the best story he’s heard all morning.

_What freshman?_

_Does it matter?_

“None of your business,” Armie shrugs, praying to God that he doesn’t sound as shaky as he feels.

Henry just booms out a laugh, slapping Armie on the shoulder as if he just scored the biggest win.

Shooting Timothée a look of gratefulness, he receives a warm smile in return.

Inside the classroom, Nick is already sitting at a table, the seat beside him unoccupied. His face breaks out into a smile the moment he sees Armie and Timothée entering.

“Hey,” he says, pulling out the chair as he looks at Armie. Just as Armie’s about to take off his backpack and take the offered seat, he feels a small tug on his sweater. He looks at Timothée, who jerks his head in the direction of the table behind Nick, both seats still available.

Before Armie has decided if he should sit with Nick or Timothée, Henry has dumped his ass next to Nick.

Taking a seat next to Timothée, Armie makes eye contact with Nick who has turned around in his chair. He’s not smiling any more, instead he looks a little confused. 

“You feeling better today?” Nick asks him.

“Yeah, totally better,” Armie says, clearing his throat.

Eyes darting around Armie’s face, Nick just nods, says, “good,” and turns back around.

The exchange felt weird. As if Nick had wanted to ask something else and Armie had both wanted to run and burst at the same time.

_Is it bad that I told Timothée instead of Nick?_

_Maybe it’s just too hard to tell Nick._

In the first break between classes, Timothée looks a little too intently at Armie’s face, zooming in on what Armie assumes must be the area around his eye. They’re walking alongside Nick, and Armie doesn’t know how to ask if his make-up is coming off, but he doesn’t have to either.

“Armie, can we talk for a second?” Timothée asks, starting to pull Armie in the direction of the bathrooms.

“Uh, yeah,” Armie says, immediately starting to worry how this must look. Timothée needing to “talk” to Armie in the bathrooms? Isn’t that universal code for “we’re going to get our tongues down each other’s throats, and this is the most privacy we can get”?

“What-- guys?” Nick asks, standing behind.

“Be right back!” Timothée says, pulling Armie around a corner and pushing him into one of the handicap stalls.

“Just need to get you freshened up a bit,” Timothée says, retreating the make-up purse from his bag. When he steps in between Armie’s thighs, Armie needs to physically sit on his hands in order not to put them on Timothée’s waist. Not to pull him closer, closer, closer until he’s close enough for Armie to nuzzle his face into his flat stomach, flatten his hands on the small of Timothée’s back and breathe in that smell of sunshine.

“You just made him think that we were going to do stuff,” Armie says, tilting his head back.

“What stuff?” Timothée asks absentmindedly.

“You know—stuff,” Armie answers, starting to fell heat rise in his face. He’s usually not shy about this. It’s just that, he’s never talked about gay sex with another guy before, certainly not another gay guy. He doesn’t know how it works, and maybe he’s just afraid of saying something stupid. Of Timothée being judgmental and chiding again.

“Making out?” Timothée asks, starting to apply more make-up to Armie’s skin.

“Something like that,” Armie murmurs. _Don’t think about it. Don’t, don’t, don’t._

“That would be ridiculous.”

“Absolutely.” Armie can’t agree fast enough. There’s silence for a while, and then, “he probably does think that, but isn’t it better than what we’re actually doing anyway?” Timothée asks.

_That’s the thing. I don’t know._

* * *

In their next class, Ashton jokingly stretches out his leg in front of Armie when he’s walking past, nearly making Armie face plant, if it hadn’t been for Nick being right next to him. He regains is balance, but he lands awkwardly on his bad ankle, making him hiss out in pain.

“Hey, knock it off,” Timothée says, slapping the back of Ashton’s head, who looks like child who’s been scolded by their mother.

Armie tries with all his might not to let on how bad it hurts. Sitting down on a chair, he bites the inside of his cheek, his face scrunched up.

“You alright?” Timothée asks quietly, placing a hand on Armie’s shoulder as he leans in close.

“Hurts,” Armie grits back.

“You need to get out of here?”

Vigorously shaking his head, Armie scoots back in his chair, breathing deeply as he waits for the pain to subside.

“Fuck, I’m sorry man,” Ashton says, a sheepish look on his face.

Nick says nothing, just stands back, eyes darting between Timothée and Armie.

* * *

“I’m so hungry I think there’s a hole in my stomach,” Timothée moans, throwing books into his bag.

“Yeah me too,” Armie says, stretching. Their breakfast had consisted of a candy bar they found in the back of Armie’s glove box.

“Armie, you want to join me for a smoke first?” Nick asks, not looking at Timothée.

“Uh sure,” Armie says. “You coming?” he asks Timothée, already starting to walk away, not noticing Nick’s face falling slightly. It‘s not that Armie doesn’t want to be alone with Nick, it’s just that, something has changed. Something between him and Timothée, and it might very well be the fact that, now Timothée knows too. Now, Timothée knows something about Armie that no one else knows. He knows how Armie looks when he cries, how he looks when he’s in pain, when he’s scared. So why wouldn’t Armie want him to join them for a cigarette?

Anyway, Nick doesn’t seem like he minds. They talk about the things they always talk about, Timothée touches Nick as much as he usually does (not that Armie puts any thought into that, no), and Nick seems fine.

* * *

Alright, Nick _seemed_ fine. During lunch, he stopped. And Armie knows that it’s probably because of Timothée sitting next to Armie and yeah, that’s unusual, because normally, Armie tries to keep the kid as far away as possible (which, that’s not very far at all, but). 

And it might also have something to do with them both being quieter than usually. First of all, they don’t bicker constantly. Second of all, Timothée misses half the questions sent his way because he’s too busy side eyeing Armie who’s zoning out more often than not.

“Want me to get that for you?” Timothée asks, pointing at Armie’s tray as he stands up.

Looking up, Armie nods, says, “thanks,” and stares off again.

Glancing between the two, Nick jumps out of his seat when Timothée leaves the table and starts following him.

Armie doesn’t make much of it. _He probably needed to rid of his own tray too. Shit, when will this day be over?_

The whole cafeteria is buzzing, and Armie is sure that there’s more people at their table than usually. Some of them he barely thinks he’s seen before. He doesn’t really listen to what they’re talking about. Not until he picks up on a conversation that seems to be about Timothée.

“I heard that his dad fucked off with a new woman, leaving him and his mother out here. Apparently, she’s a model or something--” One of the girls says. Armie thinks her name is Emma.

“No, not a model. A porn star, twenty-seven years younger than himself” another one cuts her off. Now, this one is defiantly Olivia, Armie’s sure. She kisses with too much tongue, so Armie needed to remember that one.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard too,” a third girl says. Hannah, maybe?

“Well I don’t believe you. Charlotte said that he’s living here with his grandmother or something because he’s gay. Laura from drama told her so herself,” now this one, Armie has no idea.

“Why does he need to be with his grandmother because he’s gay?” Olivia asks confused.

“Well, because his father didn’t want a gay son, duh,” Emma says, flicking her hair exasperatedly. 

“Oh. Did you hear that thing about him and Jason?” Hannah quips, almost bouncing in her seat as she claps her hands together excitedly. _Who’s Jason?_

“No, what thing? Tell me--”

Armie wants to cut in, set them straight and make them shut up. Wants to tell them, _what a bunch of utter lies and bullshit. Timothée’s here because of his aunt, and his parents sounds really nice. And stop making up nasty stuff, because he’s a good person. He’s one of the best--_

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Armie snaps out of it. It’s Nick, his face dead serious.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, waiting for Armie to get out of his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Armie asks, feeling worry start to bloom when he looks at Timothée. He’s standing right behind Nick, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, eyes full of the same worry Armie feels in the pit of his stomach. _Did Timothée tell Nick? No. he wouldn’t. He promised—he wouldn’t, would he?_

“Just come,” Nick says.

Following Nick, Armie can’t seem to put a damper on the anxiety blooming inside of him as they walk out of the school building, making their way to the back of the old gymnasium. _It must be pretty bad._

“You two. What’s going on?” Nick asks, sounding as if he won’t tolerate bullshit. Feeling caught, Armie tries to play it off cool. Putting on an oblivious expression, he looks at Nick. “Nothing,” he shrugs. Nick seems desperate.

“Please. I don’t care what it is, just stop lying to me man,” Nick pleads. Armie doesn’t want to look at him right now. He looks hurt. And Armie understands that, he does, because he and Nick used to tell each other everything, and now he doesn’t tell Nick anything. It’s stupid, because it hurts himself too.

Looking at Timothée, Armie tries to figure out what to say. He needs to say something. Wants to say something. But what? And how much?

“Just say it, please. Is it because you’re dating or something? Because fuck, you never talk to me anymore. I miss you, Armie,” Nick says, sounding as if this is something he’s thought about a lot, as if this is his safest bet. Armie feels his heart slamming against his chest.

“What? Fuck no,” Armie blurts, trying to calm his heart down.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Nick asks, sounding as if he’s grasping for straws.

Swallowing, Armie looks down at his shoes. _What about telling him the truth? It felt good to tell Timothée, and if Timothée can be accepting, then so can Nick. Right?_

“Do you want me to, or--?” Timothée asks, putting a gentle hand on Armie’s shoulder.

Searching Timothée’s eyes, Armie tries to make up his mind.

_What would be the worst that could happen?_

_I don’t know._

_Exactly._

Armie nods. Bites the inside of his cheek, and feels his stomach tighten, his hand shaking as he brings it to his mouth, biting his nails.

Turning towards Nick, Timothée looks him dead in the eye. “You need to keep quiet about this, alright? If- if you’re going to act like an idiot about it, I know where to find you at night. Got it?” Timothée asks, his voice stern.

Nick nods vigorously. “I would never. I promise.”

Then, Timothée sighs, as if every ounce of energy just left his body.

“It’s his dad,” Timothée says.

“What about him? Is he sick?” Nick asks, face pulled in a tight frown.

Armie shakes his head, already choking up. _How the hell would he do this without Timothée?_

Moving his hand to the hem of Armie’s shirt, Timothée looks Armie in the eye. “Come on, show him,” he says.

Letting go of a shaky breath, Armie lets Timothée pull up his shirt. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then a moment of silence.

“What?” Nick croaks. Timothée lets go of Armie’s shirt. “Yes,” he says, as if answering Nick’s unvoiced question.

“But how?” Nick asks, still starring at the place where Armie’s t-shirt is now covering dark bruises, his voice tight.

“I mean—how? I’ve always been, I’ve been at your place, I’ve always been there—how?” Armie thinks that Nick sounds like a broken record, but then again, he does look kind of broken too.

Armie doesn’t know what to say. What is the right thing to say anyway? _Yeah, sorry. My father’s been beating me right in front of you for years. But I’m alright?_

“I am so sorry,” Armie ends up choking, shrugging as if he can’t help it. As if he’s got anything to be sorry for.

“What the fuck are you sorry for? It’s me who’s been missing the signs for all this time! It’s me who should’ve known, who should’ve- I should’ve done something! Why didn’t you tell me? Fuck, you could’ve told me, Armie,” Nick cries. Sitting down at the bench against the wall, he pulls at his hair, grunting out in frustration.

“Wait. How long have you known?” Nick asks, pointing at Timothée.

“Since yesterday,” Armie says. “I-I know I should’ve told you, and I’m sorry, alright? But I couldn’t, and honestly, I’ve been fine, it hasn’t been this bad before, I promise.”

“What do you mean, fine? Fuck, Armie, what if- what if—shit!”

“You couldn’t have known,” Timothée says, taking a seat beside Nick. “Sometimes, people just have their reasons, and no matter how much you love them, how much you’d wish for them to just let you help them, they just can’t. That’s never your fault.”

_How does he know anything about that?_

Wiping his nose in his sleeve, Nick looks up at Timothée. Then, at Armie.

“Can I hug you, please?” Nick asks, tears trickling down his face.

“Yes please,” Armie says, taking a step forward.

Almost leaping from his seat, Nick envelopes Armie in his arms. “I love you so much. Please don’t hide from me again,” Nick murmurs, his face pushed into Armie’s shoulder. It makes Armie break down for the umpteenth time for the past twenty-four hours. _It’s been so long. God, I’ve missed him._

“I won’t,” Armie promises, clutching Nick tight.

They stand like that for a long time. It’s not until their tears have died down, Armie’s breathing is back to normal, that they pull apart. Looking up from Nick’s shoulder, Armie can’t spot Timothée anywhere. _Calm down. He probably just went to class._

Sitting at the bench, Armie leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. _I’m so tired._

“You’re staying at my place tonight. Right?” Nick asks, turning his face to look at Armie. His eyes look pleading, and Armie can’t make himself say no. He doesn’t feel like being alone anyway, and he can’t make a habit out of having Timothée in his bed.

“Sure,” Armie says, trying for a small smile.

* * *

It’s when they’re rounding the old building that Armie realizes that Timothée never went far.

He’s sitting up against the wall, knees bend and elbows resting on top, starring into nothingness.

“Timothée,” Armie says, his steps faltering.

“Hey. Sorry, just wanted to give you some space,” Timothée says, pushing himself up from the ground.

“Oh. That’s…” Armie trails off, not knowing what to say. A couple of weeks ago, he just wouldn’t have taken Timothée for someone who knew when to give people space, when to draw a line. Now, he acts as if Armie’s a fragile piece of porcelain _. Well, aren’t you?_

“I’m staying with Nick tonight,” Armie says, not really knowing why. Timothée probably doesn’t give a flying fuck. _You’re starting to sound real stupid, Hammer._ “Just—you know, if you were worried or something.” _Just, shush. Please._

“Oh,” Timothée answers. And Armie did hit his head pretty hard the other day, so that would be a pretty good explanation for the look Armie thinks he sees on Timothée’s face. And yet, Armie can’t help but feel something bumble around inside of him. _He almost looked… disappointed? No, that’s stupid. Your brain must’ve taken quiet a blow._

“Of course. Good, that’s fine. Just--” and then, Timothée turns to Nick. Opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, until he just keeps it closed, apparently deciding not to say anything.

“I’m gonna head to class,” Timothée says, pointing towards the school while he starts walking backwards.

It’s then that Armie realizes that for the first time since yesterday, Timothée will be off on his own, carrying Armie’s secret, and Armie won’t know who he talks to and what he talks about.

“Wait--,” Armie calls, taking a step forward and reaching out.

“What?” Timothée asks, coming to a stop.

“Just, remember what I said about telling people. I swear to fucking God, Timothée--” Armie warns. And it might be a bit over the top, because Timothée has been nothing but kind and caring, but fuck, this is a big thing. And Timothée talks, a lot. Sometimes, Armie doesn’t understand how his own brain keeps up with his mouth. So, better safe than sorry.

“Yeah, I know. You won’t talk to me ever again. And it’s safe with me, you know that,” Timothée says, looking Armie in the eyes. _See? He’s safe,_ Armie reminds himself.

Then, Timothée walks away and Armie tries to calm his stomach. _It’ll be fine._

* * *

At night, Armie lies awake, staring up at Nick’s ceiling. Nick is on the floor, sleeping on a spare mattress while Armie has the whole bed to himself.

“I’ll take the floor,” Nick had stated, throwing his pillow on the mattress.

“No, seriously man, it’s your bed,” Armie had said, feeling awkward.Awkward because they’ve never had this conversation before. They’ve always just crawled beneath the covers on each side of the bed, telling each other to “please keep those icicles on your own side,” and to “stop hogging my pillow.” But now, they’re dividing the pillows in between them, and there won’t be any cold feet but their own and that’s fine. Because it was never about not being able to sleep without each other, never about needing an apology to snuggle up. If they wanted to snuggle, they just did. But not anymore. Not anymore, because Armie overthinks _everything,_ and the last time they woke up in the same bed, Armie effectively smashed that piece of their friendship to the ground, and now Nick is sleeping on the floor. Now, Nick hadn’t even asked, had just disappeared down the hallway, coming back with the spare mattress. Armie had been both relieved and crushed. Relieved that he didn’t have to come up with some lame excuse about “ _needing space for my ankle,_ ” or something. Crushed because sometimes, when you let something go, you secretly wish for it to come again back by itself.

So, he lies awake and listens to the curtains rustling and Nick snoring on the floor.

He’s beyond tired and yet, his brain is running on overdrive, jumping from topic to topic and it’s a jumbled mess of half-finished thoughts and pictures.

It’s the thought of the fact that, _now two other people know_ and not knowing how he feels about that. _I’ve got a support system now._ And yet— _What if they tell someone?_ Armie knows for sure that Nick would never ever try to do him any harm. But the thing with Nick is that he’s always thinking, always trying to see the bigger picture, and more often than not that means that he won’t mind going in the opposite direction of the masses. So, what if Nick thinks that by telling someone, he’s doing the best for Armie? And Armie knows that’s not necessarily wrong, but just for once, he hopes that Nick won’t try and see the bigger picture. That he’ll just see Armie’s picture. 

And then there’s the thing with his body. He’s restless, and he’s having a hard time finding a comfortable position. He can’t really lie on his back because of the bump in the back of his head. Then, when he lies on his stomach, the bruises there hurt too. So, he ends up on his side, starring out the window.

Then, he starts wondering about Timothée. _Is he asleep? Is he awake, alone in his room? Is he with someone, maybe his parents or a friend—who is that Jason guy anyway?_

Not wanting to go down that road, Armie winds back. _Timothée sleeping._

_Does he lie on his back, arms above his head? Or does he lie on his side, hands beneath the pillow, legs drawn up? How does his face look when he sleeps? Does his eyelashes look extra black against his pale cheeks? Does he sleep with his mouth closed or is it slightly open? Armie had felt his breathing against his neck this morning. Does he talk in his sleep?_

Absentmindedly pulling out a hand from beneath his own pillow, Armie stars stroking his own hair.

Soon, the billowing white curtains morphs into pale cheeks and wide smiles, the sound of the wind taking on a raspy, breathy quality and Armie is out cold. 

* * *

On Wednesday, Armie tries his luck with the make-up Timothée had stuffed in Armie’s bag the day before. He doesn’t remember what goes where and when he tries to read on the labels, he ends up being even more confused. The only one that sort of makes sense is the one that says “concealer,” and when he daps some of that onto his bruises it looks like he chose the right goo for the right place. _Phew._

It doesn’t end up looking as good as when Timothée did it, but it does the job. The worst actually, is to get it off of his hands. Armie ends up lathering up his hands and rinsing about three times before he doesn’t have weirdly colored spots on his hands anymore. _Why the heck would anyone rub this shit on, on a daily basis?_

At school, it takes Armie about an hour to conclude that this day could’ve been better. It’s already one of those days where nothing specifically goes wrong, but in detail, everything is wrong.

First of all, Timothée is oddly distant. And Armie doesn’t know _what_ he expected from the kid, but distance might not have been on the spectrum. Because Timothée has never been distant, not like this. He’s always either too loud and annoying, or as more recently, constantly pampering and checking up on Armie.

So, the fact that Timothée just grants Armie a small smile in the morning before he walks off on his own, doesn’t sit right with Armie. The fact that, throughout all of their shared classes, Timothée sits with someone else than Armie, makes Armie feel like he missed out on something important. And when he and Nick go out for a smoke just to find Timothée already standing there barely acknowledging his presence, Armie is sure that he was just seeing things yesterday. _You really thought you were special, huh? Hah. Think again._

Every time Armie tries to start up a conversation with him, Timothée either kills it faster than it started, or starts talking to Nick instead.

By the time Armie and Nick are driving home to Nick’s place, Armie’s stomach is positively hurting.

* * *

“What do you want to watch?” Nick asks, throwing himself down on his bed, remote in hand.

“Doesn’t really matter. Just choose something,” Armie says, leaning back against the headboard.

_Just something that keeps my brain from going off on its own._

When the intro to _Modern Family_ starts playing, Armie barely glances up from his phone, busy scrolling through reddit. He doesn’t think much of it, because he’s already seen the whole show once. It does help the churning in his stomach though, and he almost feels as if he’s fine again.

It’s not until he feels like he’s emptied reddit completely, that he looks at the show, giving it his full attention. Currently, Cameron and Mitchell are taking up the screen, talking about their wedding.

Suddenly, the churning is back, full force, a jolt of anxiety shooting though Armie’s body.

_No, no, no not again. Alright, calm down. It’s just a tv-show, it’s got nothing to do with you. Just—yes, do something with your body._

Standing from the bed, Armie goes to the window. Leans against the windowsill as he tries to think about something else. _Breathe. Take it easy and breathe. It’ll be over in a minute._

Pushing away from the window, Armie starts pacing around the room. He knows that it looks weird, that Nick can probably tell that something’s up, but he just can’t sit still right now.

His heart is beating way too hard, and his brain is running a thousand miles per hour.

“You alright?” Nick asks, starting to sit up on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m fine,” Armie mutters, starting to pull at his hair. He can feel Nick’s eyes on him as he continues walking around the room like a caged animal.

“You don’t seem fine,” Nick says, looking worried.

“Can we maybe watch something else?” Armie croaks, feeling like he’ll break any minute.

“Sure. Of course,” Nick says, switching to some channel currently showing commercials.

Biting his nails, Armie stands still. His heart rate slows down, and a sigh of relief courses through his body.

_You’re fine._

Still feeling on the edge, Armie tries to stay focused on the commercials, willing the speaker to ground him. All of his senses are still on high alert though, so when Nick’s phone buzzes, Armie almost flinches.

Barking out a laugh, Nick rolls halfway onto his side, laughter rumbling through his body.

“What is it?” Armie asks, tightening his arms around himself.

Shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing, Nick chuckles, “just something Timothée send me.”

Watching Nick starting to type a response to whatever hilariousness Timothée just shared, Armie feels his blood starting to buzz, his jaw tightening. _Dude, chill. What the fuck?_

Trying not to let his temper run wild, Armie focuses back onto the TV. When Nick starts laughing again, Armie squints his eyes at him.

“Jesus, it can’t be that funny,” Armie says.

Shaking his head, Nick answers, “you wouldn’t get it, but it’s fucking priceless.”

And aright. Armie knows that some jokes are just internal, that sometimes you just had to be there. But this—this just hits a sore spot, and Armie would rather just tell himself that he doesn’t know why, but he does. Glancing at the floral jacket hanging next to Nick’s own hoodies on the wall, Armie’s vision starts to blurry. It’s like the past couple of days—no, the past couple of _weeks_ suddenly catches up on him, making a wave of anger the size of the empire state building wash over him.

“What the fuck is going on with you and him anyway?” Armie spits. He doesn’t want to know. He really, really doesn’t, but it’s as if his mouth isn’t controlled by his brain any longer.

“What do you mean?” Nick asks, sobering up when he looks at Armie.

“What do I mean? He’s literally hanging off of you like a freaking Christmas ornament, Nick! And based on the looks you give him, it seems like you love it, and what the hell is it with the constant flirting and touching?” Armie snaps, feeling his hands shake, this time not because of nerves.

“Flirting—Armie, I really don’t know what you’re--”

“No? Then why the fuck wouldn’t he talk to me today, huh? He always talks to you! And how will you explain this?” Armie rages, shooting up from the bed and stumping to the rack on the wall. Grabbing the floral jacket, he pulls it down from the rack and hurls it on the floor. As if that would make him calm down. It doesn’t.

“He—what? He talks to you all the time! And I literally had no idea that that jacket belonged to him, it’s just been here ever since I threw that party” Nicks says, as if he’s completely lost on why Armie is going off like that. Armie gets that but chooses to ignore that (slightly) important fact.

“It’s just so fucking annoying and gross to watch him trying to get in your pants, like how haven’t you noticed?!” Armie rambles, feeling like he’s running out of reasons to be angry, but not wanting to calm down. It’s a nice change from the constant anxiety.

“Whoa, whoa, Armie! Jesus, would you calm down?”

“No, I won’t! I’ll be as fucking angry as I want to be!” Armie yells, feeling out of breath.

Getting up from the bed, Nick steps up to Armie, pushing him up against the wall with a thud.

“You’ve got to shut up before my parents think we’re killing each other,” Nick hisses, folding a palm over Armie’s mouth.

Armie doesn’t say anything, just stands there, panting.

“I have no idea what’s going on inside of you right now man, but Timothée—he’s not trying to get into anyone’s pants. Especially not mine--”

“Sure seems like it,” Armie grits behind Nick’s palm.

“Fuck, Armie. It’s you. Don’t you see? He sticks around because of you,” Nick says, looking more sad than angry. _What?_

“What are you talking about?” Armie asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Nick removes his palm.

“He wants to be your friend. Not mine. Not Henry’s, not Ashton’s—yours.” Letting go of a sigh, Nick takes a seat on the edge of his bed.

“How do you know that?” Armie asks, feeling like a petulant child as he hugs himself.

“Because he asked me why you hate him so much. Because he asked me for your number. Because, when you’re not around, Timothée tends not to be either,” Nick says, shrugging.

Armie doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to feel. In some ways, this is all that he ever wanted to hear. Because that’s why he got so angry, right? Because he was jealous, full stop.

But at the same time—what is he supposed to do with that information? What is he supposed to do with all these feelings constantly tumbling around inside of him? He can’t let himself celebrate the fact that, according to Nick, Armie is the one Timothée wants to spend time with. That would be a total admission of failure.

Sliding down the wall, Armie feels himself running out of steam.

Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, Nick looks at Armie. “Talk to me,” he says, voice gentle. 

Slowly shaking his head from side to side, Armie stares at a spot on the floor. “I can’t.”

“You can’t? or you won’t?” Nick asks, his voice taking on an edge of impatience.

“I just told you, I can’t,” Armie says, his vision going blurry.

“Is it about your dad?” Nick asks, leaning further forward.

Shaking his head, Armie wipes at his face. “No.”

“Is it about something else going on at home?” Armie shakes his head again.

“Is it—is it about me?” Nick asks. This time, his voice breaks a little.

“No. I promise it’s not about you,” Armie says, voice shaking with effort.

“If I guess correctly, will you tell me?” Nick asks, tightening his clasped hands.

_Will I? Maybe. It was so much easier to show Timothée my bruises than tell him about them—maybe, if Nick just says it for me, then it won’t be as hard?_

“Maybe,” Armie says, biting his lip.

“Fuck. Okay,” Nick sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“Then I’ll start with what I know,” Nick says, standing from the bed.

“Ever since Timothée showed up, you’ve been acting differently. You’ve been pulling away, not just from me, but from everyone. And I don’t know, maybe that’s because of what’s been going on at home, but somehow, I don’t think so. Am I right?” Nick asks, looking sharply at Armie.

Armie nods his head.

“So, it does have something to do with Timothée?” Nick asks.

Staring straight ahead but seeing nothing, Armie hesitates. Then, he nods so carefully he’s not sure Nick sees.

“Alright. Does it have anything to do with what happened at the club?” Nick asks, cutting straight to the chase. Armie freezes, his breath catching in his throat. _You can’t be that surprised. You knew that he saw._

Squeezing his eyes shut so tight he starts seeing stars, Armie hides his face in his hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Nick says, sitting down in front of Armie. His voice has gone soft again, and when he reaches out and places a hand on Armie’s knee, Armie feels a shudder run through his body. Heaving in a sob, his shoulders starts shaking.

“Shit,” Nick mutters, getting up and pulling Armie into a tight embrace.

Clutching on to Nick’s arms, Armie lets it all out.

“Shh, Arms. It’s fine, it’ll be fine,” Nick says, holding Armie up as his body gives out.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on inside of that head of yours?” Nick asks, and Armie feels like he’s been asked this question way too many times lately.

Opening his mouth, Armie tries to make the sound come out, but it’s stuck in his throat, and he just ends up sitting there, mouth open and chest heaving.

“No matter what it is, I’ll help you, alright? I promise,” Nick says, rubbing his hand up and down Armie’s back.

“I-” Armie croaks, before he’s cut off by a sob.

“Yeah?”

“I think—I’m scared that—Nick,” Armie wails, feeling like the words just won’t come out. They’re tumbling around inside of his brain, almost lining up to come out, but his throat is too tight.

“You can tell me everything,” Nick says, running a hand through Armie’s hair.

“Nick, what if I’m gay?” Armie croaks, finally getting the words out. It feels as if the world comes to stop when he says it, and he’s not sure if he’s the one tensing up, or if Nick did too.

“Armie--” Nick says, pulling back, and Armie lets him. Braces himself for the words that will come, the warmth that will leave.

“Is that it? You think you’re gay?” Nick asks, taking Armie’s hands in his own.

Nodding, Armie bites his lip and tries to keep in the sound of himself. _God you’re pathetic. A pathetic faggot of cry baby._

“Fuck, Armie. I know, alright? I already knew that. Shit. Come here,” Nick says, pulling Armie back into a hug.

Sniffling, Armie looks up with a confused frown. “What?” _This doesn’t make any sense at all._

Giving Armie a small smile, Nick shrugs. “I had a pretty strong feeling, but it’s not like it ever mattered to me, you know? I just figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” he says.

It makes Armie feel as if he’s been left out on a huge secret his whole life. As if everyone has known, but never stopped to tell him.

“But I can’t be gay,” Armie protest, a new round of tears bubbling to the surface. _I wish I could, but I can’t._

“Why not?” Nick asks, looking confused.

Raking his brain, trying to gather all of his thousand reasons and list them in some sort of coherent order, Armie pulls at his hair, eyes flying around without seeing anything.

“Because it’ll ruin my life. My parents will disown me. I’ll never be happy because—because I can’t be that way,” Armie chokes.

“Be what way, Armie?”

_How do I make him understand? How do I tell him that I don’t know how to decorate a house in a wholesome way, that I don’t know how to dress properly according to the latest fashion? That I don’t want to become a woman, without sounding like a complete homophobe?_

“If I fall in love with a man, then which one will I be?” Armie asks, knowing that he’s talking in riddles, but not knowing how to express himself either without putting his foot in his mouth.

When Nick’s frown smooths out, realization dawning on his face, Armie feels as if he said something stupid anyway.

“Let me get this right. You’re worried that if you fall in love with a man who you view as equally as masculine as you—or more, you’ll have to be the woman?” Nick asks, clearly trying not to sound as if this is the most stupid, hilarious thing Armie has ever said. He almost succeeds.

“Yes. Maybe,” Armie breathes, the air coming out all shaky. “I know it’s stupid, but what if I can never be loved properly? What if I end up alone and- and, rejected?” Armie asks, for the first time voicing what he is most afraid of.

“Well, first of all, there’s no such thing as a “woman” in a relationship. There’s not a rule that says that one has to be more feminine or masculine than the other for a relationship to work. It’s about levelling each other out on all parameters, it’s not about fitting into boxes and stereotypes. So, even though I understand why you’re worried about this, you really shouldn’t be. Because it’s not like that in real life.”

Searching Nick’s face for further reassurance, Armie swallows.

“Second of all, your fear of being rejected—I don’t think the cause of that should be found in your fear of being gay. I think it stems from your fear of not being good enough overall. Plus, if you ask me, I think there’s a much bigger risk of you not experiencing true love if you force yourself to stay inside the closet,” Nick says. 

“But I can’t come out—if people find out, they’ll talk, and--” _Maybe I can move away, far away, where no one knows me, and_

“Armie, people always talk. Even if you’re straight as a ruler, they’re going to talk. And you’d be surprised how many people aren’t that straight,” Nick says, looking down at his lap.

“What do you mean?” _Timothée is the only one I know. Beautiful, brave, Timothée._

Nick shrugs, a secretive smile on his face. “I make out with Henry sometimes,” he says.

 _What? No, seriously, what?_

“Whaaat? No way,” Armie sniffles.

“Yes way,” Nick says, a smirk on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Armie asks, even though he kind of gets it why Nick kept it to himself.

“First of all, it’s not a big deal. Second of all, you’ve been jumpy every time the whole gay-topic has been brought up, so. Does it freak you out? Make you want to dump my ass a friend?”

“What? Of course not. Never. I’m so sorry, if I’ve made you think that, I--” Armie says, really meaning it. 

“Don’t be. I honestly don’t understand how the hell you’re still standing, on your own two feet” Nick says, giving Armie a small smile. It doesn’t look happy.

Armie shrugs. He doesn’t really know either. But he’s got a feeling that if he hadn’t reached out, he wouldn’t have been able to make it much longer.

“I feel like the worst best friend in the world, you know? I should’ve been there,” Nick says, his voice sounding tight.

“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought it would all go away by itself but… instead, it got worse,” Armie says. _Please don’t be sad because of me. I can’t stand it if I make you of all people feel bad._

“But you’ll tell me, right? From now on. No more secrets?” Nick asks, a hopeful look on his face.

“No more secrets,” Armie promises. _No more secrets._

* * *

They sit for a while. Armie trying to settle his mind, let the tears dry up once again. It feels good to get all this out. He’s slightly unnerved by how none of this has blown up in his face yet. The only reason why he hasn’t said anything for all this time has been because of that exact fear—that he’d lose everything. But instead, everything has gone quiet. Peaceful. Well, almost everything because there’s still something nagging his mind, eating away at his consciousness.

Looking away from Nick, Armie lets it join the rest of the admissions floating around the room.

“My parents will disown me,” he says.

Taking Armie’s hand in his own, Nick looks at him. His eyes are sincere and warm.

“Have you ever considered that maybe it’s time you disown them? They don’t deserve you, Armie. And I know it’s not the same thing, but you’ve got plenty of other people around you who wouldn’t even think twice about calling you family. Myself included,” Nick says. 

_I feel like I already have. That doesn’t stop me from feeling bad, though. Like I’ve failed as a son, even though they’ve set me up to that exact failure all of my life. But Nick might be right still—I have other people now. At least, I’ve got Nick. And Timothée too, maybe. I hope so. In just two days he’s taking better care of me than anyone else has my whole life. I really need him to talk to me again._

* * *

They don’t talk about Timothée’s role in all of this. Armie is grateful because he’s not ready. He doesn’t even have the answers to half of his own questions anyway, and Nick seems to know when enough is enough.

When they get ready for bed, (and Armie has picked up Timothée’s jacket, straightened it out and put it by his backpack,) Nick goes to lie down on the mattress on the floor. But Armie feels so light and ready to get back some sort of normality again, that he picks up the pillow and comforter. Then, he throws it on Nick’s side of the bed, strips down to boxers and t-shirt and crawls into bed. Nick stands beside the bed for a moment, as if giving Armie a chance to withdraw the unspoken offer. When Armie rolls onto his side and closes his eyes, Nick crawls into the bed too, just to have ten cold feet shoved directly at his shin. He doesn’t ask Armie to fuck off this time.

“Can I ask you something?” Armie asks into the darkness. He’s lying on his back, hands folded on top of the comforter. Nick hasn’t said anything for a while, but Armie is almost sure that he isn’t sleeping.

“Anything,” Nick answers, turning his face towards Armie.

“The thing with Henry. Does- does that mean that you’re--” Armie swallows. Reminds himself that the word isn’t poisonous. “—gay?”

Nick is quiet for a few moments, and Armie is starting to get nervous that he just said something that he shouldn’t have said. He feels like a fish out of water talking about these things.

“I think it means that I like kissing him,” Nick says. He doesn’t sound offended.

“I mean, obviously--” Armie says, not knowing how to make Nick understand that he needs clear answers.

“I know what you’re asking, Armie. But I don’t know. I guess, for some people, it’s easy. Or, at least easier. Like—they just know that there’s only one gender for them out there, but it’s not like that for me. For me, it’s more like—I don’t think of myself as belonging to a specific label. I just look at people, and I don’t see a gender, I just see a person. So, I guess what I mean is that, if Henry had been a girl, or anything else in between, I would’ve enjoyed it just as much. Does that make sense?” 

Armie thinks about this. To him, it almost sounds easier than just being attracted to one gender. Not that he knows anything about that, not for real.

“It does. Make sense,” Armie says. And then, it feels like something inside of him breaks lose, swiveling around and around until it explodes, dissolving into a smooth light that settles where there was once filled with a heavy darkness. It clicks into place, and when Armie pulls in a breath, it feels as if it reaches all the way down to his toes, and when a teardrop runs down his cheek, it’s got no traces of fear or sadness. Instead, it brings with it such an immense relief and clarity and hope that it makes him burst out in a sudden laugh.

_So, I’m not straight. Maybe I’m not gay either. I might be, but maybe it doesn’t matter. If I can just be me. If I can just kiss who I want to kiss, look at who I want to look at, then maybe everything will feel a little easier?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️


	9. A prober chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though it hurts, even though Timmy never wants to let go of Armie, he also knows that it was never really his decision to make in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timmy's point of view 
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about the American legal system (I study language and speech for Christ sake, I don't even know how these things work in my own country,) or the school system, so if something in this and following chapters seem odd to you, I'm sorry about that but I'm afraid you'll just have to roll with it. (I mean, they were buying alcohol and drinking in public in the first chapter, so I guess that ship sailed long ago)

Thursday morning, Timmy opens the cupboard above the sink in the apartment he’s been living in for the last couple of months. Scanning the choices of bowls with his hand, he settles on a creamy white one, the one he always chooses. It looks like something straight out of Ikea. He doesn’t know why he always ends up choosing that one. Maybe it’s exactly because it looks like something from Ikea. It has no personality, no history. It has never belonged to anyone, and that probably makes him feel less like the intruder he’s been seeing himself as lately.

The next cupboard he opens is filled with too many choices of cereal for it to be justified in any way. There’s enough to keep a whole kinder garden running for weeks. The boxes are sorted though, and that honestly makes it a little easier. The healthiest choices start from the right side of the cupboard, slowing morphing into something that’s got more in common with weirdly colored sugar cubes than actual food. He chooses one of the boxes in the middle.

Grabbing a spoon and the milk, Timmy plumbs down in a chair that is more fancy than comfortable, but who gives a shit. He only stays out here when he’s eating, and that rarely takes him that much time.

He ends up pouring too much milk, because he’s zoning out _again._ Looking down at the soaking breakfast, he considers adding more cereal, to even out the drowning situation. He decides against it. He’s barely hungry as it is. Well, he _is_ hungry, but his appetite is lacking. Whether that’s due to barely sleeping this week, or being in a constant state of worry, he doesn’t know. But does it matter? The point is, he feels like he’s hanging above his own body, looking down at himself.

He’s not shy of admitting that Armie is the reason for the state of his mind. The state of his body.

He feels awful. 

The day that he’d noticed the scar on Armie’s cheek, and Armie had flinched away, Timmy had known that it wasn’t from practice. Not that the scar in itself couldn’t have come from a rough tumble on the field. But Armie’s reaction though- that didn’t come from playing a violent sport.

The first time Armie had made up an excuse about not being able to stay at his place, Timmy had known that it was a lie. It’s not that hard to know the signs of a liar when you’re a pro one yourself. Timmy had let it slide and made one up himself.

Then, Timmy had succeeded in making Armie agree to bringing him back to his place, and Timmy had gone home that night with a stomachache. He hadn’t really meant to stay over for dinner that night, because hurtful as it was, it was clear that Armie had wanted him out of the house. And under any other circumstances, Timmy would’ve just told Armie to go fuck himself and went home.

But Timmy had been curious from the beginning. Had been curious as to what was going on between Armie and his mother. The way she had been trying to wrap her distance and reservation up in lukewarm faux kindness. The way Armie had been tense all the way back to his room.

Timmy had been curious about the brother that had moved out at seventeen, because in Timmy’s world, that’s a pretty early age to leave the nest.

When Armie had hurried to tell his mother that Timmy couldn’t stay for dinner, Timmy had accepted the proposal faster than his own brain could catch up. He hadn’t regretted it, not even when Armie’s father had showed up. Because the way Armie had tensed up, sitting in his chair, stiff like a steel wire, not even batting an eyelid, Timmy had felt like he was getting warm. Had felt like he was close to something.

So, yeah, to be honest, Timmy probably knew deep down, before Armie even showed up on Monday. And that made it even worse. Because if Timmy hadn’t known, hadn’t had the slightest idea, then he could’ve at least told himself _that_.

But the thing is, when Armie had been missing at school, Timmy had felt like something was wrong. Had thought about the way Armie’s parents had called him _Armand_. Not that you can’t call your child Armand and love them at the same time, but there had been no traces of parenthood. No joy, no love. No safety.

So, when Armie had answered the phone, not sounding like the Armie Timmy had come to know at all, Timmy had been ready to go to Armie’s place immediately. Had expected Armie to tell him not to come but going anyway.

He hadn’t expected Armie to say that he’d just come and meet Timmy. And it had made the churning in Timmy’s stomach fizzles down to almost nothing, because that could only mean that Armie was somewhat alright.

When Armie had parked at the school, and Timmy had waited for him to get out of the car, just for Armie to stay seated, Timmy had felt his chest tighten. Looking back, Timmy doesn’t know how he could tell just by that. But he could, and when Armie had stepped out of the car, leaning down on just one foot, Timmy had speeded up his steps. Had felt the anxious feeling from earlier return.

And he had been right. He had been right about Armie constantly being ready for something to hurt. Had been right about Armie’s home not containing one ounce of humanity.

Snapping out of it, Timmy eats a spoonful of soggy cereal. It does nothing to his declining appetite. Starring out the kitchen window, Timmy supposes that he could’ve stopped the day Armie flinched away from his touch in class. Bu then again, Timmy can’t pinpoint a time where he really had a choice regarding Armie. Ever since he first lay eyes on Armie at the bar, Timmy hadn’t had a choice. _Well,_ he’d had a lot of choices, but none of them included forgetting about Armie. Because the thing is, he could’ve been kinder. He could’ve dropped the asshole act and kindly told Armie to please ask before touching—no, he could’ve offered Armie a drink much earlier than that, like he had wanted to. But Timmy hadn’t, because right from the first second, Armie had set Timmy’s whole being on fire. A fire that made him yell at Armie instead of pressing back up against him, had fuck—had made him slap Armie across the face, and the thought almost makes Timmy throw up now. A fire that had made him give Armie hell when he saw him sitting right there, in his first class at his new school. It’s like everything the sane part of Timmy’s brain wanted him to tell Armie, Timmy went and said the exact opposite. Like every time Timmy’s stammering heart wanted to show Armie how he really felt, Timmy went and convinced Armie that he didn’t have one.

Not like it matters what Timmy’s heart wants. It doesn’t take a genius to know what Armie’s heart defiantly doesn’t want. 

Pulling forth his phone, Timmy opens his camera roll. He’s been starring at the same photo album for hours the past couple of days, each time feeling sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know why he insists on torturing himself like this. Maybe he hopes to find some answers. He doesn’t look at the ones of Armie’s face, though. That hurts too much. 

When Timmy hears the sound of a door opening, high heels making their way towards the kitchen, he turns off his phon and all but drops it onto the table in a near panic. Looking up he mumbles, “morning,” when a woman in her mid-forties makes herself present in the kitchen. She’s wearing her usual attire -Timmy has come to the conclusion that she must own about twenty different versions of this one- black suit pants, white dress shirt and a black blazer on top. Pulling up her shoulder-length dark hair in a bun, she goes straight for the cereal cabin. “It’s weird- I can’t find my make up,” she says, and Timmy acts as if he didn’t hear, just goes back to his breakfast. “Timmy, have you seen my make up purse? It’s black, about this size,” she says, holding up her hands to show him the approximate size of the purse in question.

Furrowing his eyebrows in fake confusion, he shakes his head and mumbles, “never seen it,” around a mouthful of cereal.

“Of course not, I don’t even know why you would have. I must’ve forgotten it in a hotel or something,” she says, rummaging around the kitchen. Timmy grunts in agreement. Reminds himself to make the purse magically show up again someday. 

“You’ll have to order dinner on your own tonight. I’ve got a trial at court with a client that doesn’t know the meaning of cooperating. A god damned waste of my time, honestly,” the woman says, taking a sip of her coffee.

“’S fine,” Timmy says, standing from his chair, placing the cream-colored bowl in the sink. “Good luck with work,” he says, heading down the hallway towards his room. It’s not like they usually hang out around pizza or something, he’ll probably just eat in his bedroom and read.

Maybe call Will, if the time differences will allow it. He could really use some impartial advice.

* * *

Getting on his bike, Timmy makes his way into the buzzing LA morning traffic. He’s done it a hundred times before, and he doesn’t have to think much about where he is in order to make it there. It’s probably why he’s so deep in thought, despite the busy traffic going on around him.

Or, it’s because he feels like he’s in the biggest dilemma of his life.

A dilemma that needs to be solved, because he can basically hear the clock ticking. He knows that right now, Armie is safe. He’s with Nick and haven’t been alone with his parents since Sunday night, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t go back there alone, eventually. Armie is stubborn, and it’s probably just a matter of time before he’s convinced Nick that he’ll be fine. Plus, Timmy isn’t sure that Armie will actually let him move into his place. So, Timmy will have to think of something else.

At first, when he’d so stupidly promised Armie to keep his mouth shut about this, Timmy had told himself that he’d just keep eye on Armie all the time. That solution though, doesn’t really work in practice. Then, for a fleeting moment, he’d considered just shutting out his own worry, his own conciseness. That clearly doesn’t work.

So, he’s down to two choices. Either he breaks his promise to Armie, or he learns to live with the fact that if Armie goes back to that house alone and gets injured again, it’s Timmy’s fault. It should be an easy choice. It should be as easy as to just pick up the phone and call the police. But the thing is, Timmy isn’t that good.

Because calling the police means going behind Armie’s back. _Which you already did when you took those pictures,_ Timmy reminds himself.

Going behind Armie’s back means losing him for good, Timmy is sure of it. And it’s not like Timmy’s got much to lose -Armie was never his to begin with, not his boyfriend, sometimes, barely his friend at all- but the past couple of weeks has been enough. Just getting to look at Armie, listen to his voice when it’s directed at Timmy, when no one else is around to take from Armie but Timmy, it’s enough. And sometimes, Timmy has seen a spec of something, of something that always threatens to make Timmy burn up in a matter of seconds. It happened when they were at the park, eating hot dogs. It happened when Armie fell asleep on his bed beside Timmy. And it happened again on Monday, when Armie had looked at Timmy as if he was -and Timmy has to swallow down hope when he thinks about this- as if he was a mirage in a dessert, and Armie just wanted to drink and drink and drink.

So, in some ways, Timmy has nothing to lose. In other ways, Timmy’s got everything to lose. Because ever since he moved away from New York, Armie has been the only thing that has made Timmy feel anything besides a dull emptiness. And that’s why Timmy has spent days raking up his brain about what to do.

Should he save Armie or himself?

In a flash, Timmy is taken back to when he was in preschool. Jack Cunningham had been sent out on the hallway during class, because he and a bunch of other kids had bullied Daniel Foster. Daniel Foster, who -Timmy learned later on- was born with a major hearing impairment, but wasn’t deaf, and always wore big, chunky, colorful hearing aids. The kid had a hard time hearing what was happening around him, so it was really not that hard for Jack Cunningham and his gang of bullies to sneak up on Daniel and pull his pants down in the middle of the playground. Timmy had stood by the swings, observing the whole thing. He still remembers seeing Jack sneaking up and wanting to shout out a warning to Daniel—but Timmy hadn’t been sure if Daniel would even hear, plus, Jack was mean and tall, and Timmy didn’t want his pants pulled down too. He had reported the whole thing to his mother when he’d come home from school that day. Had told her about how stupid Jack Cunningham had been told off in front of the whole class and send out.

_“I see,”_ his mother had said, a thoughtful look on her face. Timmy had thought she should look a little more excited. “ _What did you do when you saw?_ ” she had asked. And Timmy could already feel in his stomach, that doing nothing had been wrong. “ _I didn’t do anything, mom. It wasn’t me, and Daniel can’t hear anything anyway,_ ” Timmy had said. Then, his mom had crouched down in front of him, taking his hands in her own and said with a voice that told Timmy that this was important. “ _When someone is hurt and needs help, it is just as bad to just look on and do nothing, as it is to be the one bullying. You hear me? Besides, Daniel can hear just fine, you silly kid. You just need to give him a prober chance._ ”

And shit, if that isn’t his own mothers voice telling him _again,_ that this isn’t about what he wants. This is about what Armie needs.

* * *

Timmy’s first class is shared with Armie, and when he enters the classroom, Armie is already sitting at a table, the seat next to him unoccupied. Timmy’s steps falters, because the minute he walked through the door, Armie’s eyes were on him, searching, before a small smile broke out. And Timmy is so done for, that he smiles back. Smiles back and continues into the classroom. Feels his heart clench when Armie subtly pulls out the chair beside him, obviously waiting for Timmy to take a seat. But Timmy can’t. He wants to, so bad, but he can’t because if Armie is close, Timmy can’t think, can’t make a plan. So, he looks down at the ground, avoids Armie’s falling smile and continues past the offered chair.

Sitting behind Armie, Timmy is sure that he can see Armie’s shoulders slumping, his head hanging a little lower than usually. And the longer he looks, the surer he gets that he can actually see the bump in the back of Armie’s head. And he probably can’t because it hadn’t been that big, and his hair is covering the whole thing. But Timmy knows.

Adverting his eyes, Timmy tries to erase the images of Armie on the floor, eyes rolling back from impact. _You don’t know how it happened. Stop imagining it._

* * *

When class is over, Timmy isn’t sure where to go, both figuratively and literally. Before he starts feeling too awkward, he picks up his bag by default and makes his way over to Nick and Henry, who are standing by a table, talking.

“You on your way outside?” Timmy asks, pointing in the general direction of outside.

Seemingly putting an end to the conversation, Henry shoots Nick a look that Timmy is sure isn’t mend for him to understand. And shit, he hates feeling like this. Hates feeling like he’s intruding on everyone’s life. Hates feeling like someone who no one knows why always tags along. Nick had assured him some time ago, that that isn’t the case at all, but at times like these, Timmy just feels out of place. It takes all of his positive energy not to turn sour when he lets himself think about how, at home, in New York, he had friends. Has. Whatever. The point is, in New York, he didn’t feel like this.

“Yeah, you wanna join?” Nick asks, putting an arm around Timmy’s shoulder, but removing it again when he looks across the room. Turning around, Timmy makes eye contact with Armie.

“If you don’t mind?” Timmy says.

“Why would we mind?” Henry asks, shoving Timmy playfully in the shoulder. _Alright, Nick might be right._

Following Henry and Nick outside, Timmy is aware that Armie is right behind him. Can feel it in the way the hairs in the nape of his neck stands up, in the way his blood starts singing, emphasizing Timmy’s almost primal need to be close to Armie.

Decisively not acknowledging Armie, Timmy keeps walking.

Outside, surrounded by trees and fresh air, Timmy eyes the bench standing against the old brick building, but decides that he needs to stand up.

“Did you see the way she looked at you when she handed out assignments today?” Henry asks, looking at Nick, a teasing smirk on his face.

“She did not look at me in any specific way,” Nick says, shoving at Henry, cigarette dangling between his lips.

Timmy is just about to ask _who?_ When he catches Armie moving from the corner of his eye.

“Timothée--” he says, bending own to pull something out of his backpack. “—I think you forgot this, at Nick’s place,” Armie says, reaching his hand toward Timmy, floral jacket in hand.

Timmy recognizes it immediately as his Gucci jacket that he hasn’t seen in weeks.

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Timmy says. And because he’s weak, he purposely lets his fingers brush against Armie’s as he takes the jacket. Armie doesn’t seem to notice, but Timmy lets himself relish in the feeling of Armie’s rough skin.

Clearing his throat, Armie awkwardly bends down to close his backpack. Then, he stands up and pulls a cigarette from his packet, but when he’s placed it between his lips, he can’t seem to find his lighter. Timmy stands there, staring at him for a second before he jumps into action. Pulling his own lighter out of his pocket, he says, “here, have mine,” and at the same time as he reaches out his hand, Armie does the same, resulting in their hands knocking together, making the lighter land on the ground.

“Shit,” Timmy curses, bending down to pick it up. Standing back up, his hair is all over the place, lose strands dangling in front of his eyes. “Here--” he says, handing Armie the lighter as he tries to brush the curtain of hair away from his face.

“Thanks,” Armie mumbles around the cigarette. Then, he hands it back to Timmy at the same time as he blows out a plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Timmy is starstruck.

“No, you can just keep it,” Timmy says, waving a hand at Armie. _Why did you say that? It’s the only one you’ve got. Oh well. I should quit anyway._

Shrugging, Armie puts the lighter in his own pocket.

Looking at Nick and Henry, Timmy tries with all of his might to ease into their conversation. If this is how he acts around Armie from now on, it might just be for the best if he can’t talk to him anymore, because he’ll no doubt end up making a fool of himself. Then again, if he’s really so desperate for Armie’s touch, then he might not survive it if Armie turns his back on him.

He needs to cool off.

* * *

When lunch break arrives, Timmy has purposely chosen another table than the usual one. He needs to think. Needs to stay clear of Armie. Of course, Armie doesn’t agree. Sliding into the seat next to Timmy, is Armie, and Timmy is very well aware that last week he would’ve done the same thing himself. He would’ve looked at Armie from across the cafeteria, wondering if he should go and sit next to him or not. He would’ve had the usual discussion in his head; _don’t. Give him some space and stop acting so desperate._ Then; _just go at sit with him. You know you want to, and you’ll never get to be his friend if you don’t try._

Not that he ever did a good job at presenting himself as a potentially good friend. But to his defense, Armie could be a pain in the ass too. It’s just too bad that Timmy never feel like sitting next to any other pain in the ass.

Today, Armie is the one seeking Timmy’s attention though, and while Timmy secretly enjoys it like a major guilty pleasure, today is just not a good day for him.

“If you regret what I told you the other day, just say so,” Armie says, placing his tray on the table.

_What now?_

“What the hell, Armie? Why would I regret that?” _You’re the one who’d rather stay with Nick than me._

_Jeeze, hold your horses dude, they’re best friends._

“I could come up with a whole list of reasons if you want me to,” Armie says, squinting his eyes at Timmy.

“Well don’t. Because I’m positive that none of them are true,” Timmy says, busying himself with his food.

“Then why--” Armie stops, scratches his hair in a way that can only be descripted as frustrated. “—then why the hell are you avoiding me?” he asks, and Timmy really, _really_ tries to drown out the vulnerability in Armie’s voice, but as soon as he looks at Armie’s eyes, it’s impossible.

Tilting his head back, Timmy looks up at the ceiling. Swallows and tries to figure out what to say. _Because I promised you that I wouldn’t tell anyone, but now I’m not sure that I won’t? No._

_Because I’m mentally preparing myself for the day where you’re not talking to me anymore? No._

_Because all sense of logic and rationality flies straight out the window when you’re near me? No._

“I thought you needed some space,” he ends up saying. _Well, he might._

Armie looks bewildered. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Picks up his banana, and says, “please don’t give me space,” so quietly that Timmy almost misses it. And he wishes that he did, because _fuck. Armie can’t just go and say something like that. Does he have any idea at all? Any idea how, if Timmy weren’t seventeen, if Timmy weren’t in a weird mess himself, then he’d bring Armie with him back to New York, and he’d show him—he’d show him—fuck. Shit._

Nudging Armie’s foot beneath the table, Timmy catches Armie’s attention. Smiles at him and lets the fondness show.

“You know you’re going to regret saying that, right?” And yeah, he’s trying to be funny. Trying to act as if he isn’t considering (strongly considering), turning Armie’s world upside down. As if he isn’t considering making Armie hate him for good. Trying to tell Armie that this isn’t because Timmy doesn’t like him. It’s not, it’s because of the exact opposite, and sometimes the word _like_ seems too small, too insufficient, but Timmy can’t stand to lose someone he loves again, so _liking_ will have to do. But Armie needs to know at least that—that Timmy likes him. And that he’ll like Armie in anyway Armie needs him to.

Shit. This might just be the last time he gets to make Armie smile like this.

* * *

By the time half of the last class of the day is over, Timmy is prepared to suck it up and keep his promise. He’s sitting next to Armie again, and the thought of it being the last time—he just can’t. The thought of not being able to soak in Armie’s presence, not getting to look into his ocean blue orbs, not being able to get a rise out of him just because Timmy needs to have something, just something, is killing him.

He’ll cook up a plan, Timmy tells himself. He’ll tell his mom tonight, before goes to sleep, that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be the better person, because he’s selfish and scared.

He’ll create some sort of safety net for Armie with the help from Nick. They’ll make sure that Armie’s father can’t touch him. He’ll delete the photos.

He doesn’t know how, but every time he catches Armie smiling at him, or when Armie says his name (Timothée- always Timothée, and at first, Timmy didn’t like it. Only his family in France and his dad would call him that, but now, it sounds like bliss. Because Armie is the only one who bothers with the foreign pronunciation, and it feels special), anyway, every time Armie says, _Timothée,_ Timmy feels a rush in his bloodstream, and he can’t let that go.

_God, he’s so selfish._

That’s how he feels, what he’s decided upon, and he can almost feel the calm that follows after making a decision, when the next thing happens.

The whole class have been instructed to talk about what the teacher has just droned on about, when one of the other guys -Timmy can’t remember his name- suddenly raises his arm, curling his hand into a fist. The guy (the idiot,) levitates himself slightly from the chair, swings his arm around and growls in a mock attack on the guy next to him. From the outside, it’s harmless. They’re laughing, and no one got hurt. But Timmy is so tuned in on Armie, that he doesn’t miss his reaction. The way he flinches back, his whole body tensing up. The way a shock of fear crosses his face, and Timmy feels as if his heart was just ripped out of his chest and hurled out the window.

He barely catches himself before he yells at the guy. He doesn’t though. Instead, he places his hand on Armie’s thigh beneath the table, and it’s the first time he’s touched him like this, so Timmy soaks up the feeling as good as he can, because it’ll surely be the last time too. He squeezes, his hand firm, and when Armie looks at Timmy, he tries with all of his might to tell Armie with just his face, that it’s alright. That he’s here.

As Armie’s face eases up, Timmy feels a hand taking his own beneath the table, and while Armie visibly relaxes, Timmy feels tense. Siting there, clutching Armie’s warm hand in his own, Timmy knows. And even though it hurts, even though Timmy never wants to let go of Armie, he also knows that it was never really his decision to make in the first place.

_Armie can’t go back home._

* * *

“Nick and I are going to order some pizza and play FIFA at his place,” Armie says, looking at Timmy as if he really can’t believe he’s doing this. “Do you want to come?” And Timmy defiantly can’t believe it either.

_I would love to,_ is what he wants to say. _I would watch you play whatever ridiculous PlayStation game you’d like to play, if you’d just ask—I would eat all the pizza in the world, if that gave me an excuse to spend time with you._ But instead, Timmy tightens his grip on the straps on his backpack and says, “can’t today, sorry--” and then, just for the sake of acting normal, “maybe next time?” and Timmy knows that Armie will never want to offer him this again, but it’s nice to pretend when Armie nods vigorously.

It’s nice to pretend when Armie says, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” and stands there awkwardly, looking like he wants to give Timmy a hug, but doesn’t know how. So, Timmy steps forward. Pushes his face into the nape of Armie’s neck and breathes in, taking his fill because he’ll have to make do with this. _I am so, so, sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me._ Timmy curls his fingers in Armie’s t-shirt and squeezes, before he steps back and says, “see you tomorrow, Armie.”

It’s not a nice tightening he feels in his stomach as he watches Armie leave with Nick.

_He’ll be fine. Once you’ve done what you’re supposed to do, he’ll be fine, and you know it. You’ll make sure he does. He won’t be alone either, he’ll have Nick. He’ll have real grownups too, probably. Hopefully._

Turning around, Timmy makes his way back inside the school. Tries to turn off his brain, as he marches down the hallways, steering towards the place he’s only been once before. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say- what will happen next, but he’s sure that someone will know what to do. He’s sure that it’s part of their job to know these things.

Standing in front of the door to the principal’s office, Timmy sucks in a deep breath. Counts to four as he breathes out. _Doing nothing is just as bad._

Timmy knocks hard on the door three times. Hears a distant, _come in,_ and he turns the doorknob. Inside the office, is principal Evans. She smiles kindly when she sees him, and Timmy wonders if she remembers him or if he simply looks so nervous, that she’s already trying to calm him down.

“Timothée Chalamet, how can I help you?” she asks, leaning back in her chair, folding her hands together. Closing the door behind himself, Timmy takes a step forward. The grip on the shoulder straps is back, and he feels like his heart is hammering so hard it must be visible beneath his shirt.

“It’s about a friend,” Timmy says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out all strangled.

“Please, take a seat,” Mrs. Evans says, gesturing the chair in front of her desk.

Dumping his backpack on the floor, Timmy sits. Presses his hands between his thighs and rolls his lips. “A friend, you say? Someone from our school?” she asks, her eyes kind.

“I’m not supposed to say anything,” Timmy blurts, as if that is going to help him later on. It’s probably not.

Mrs. Evans furrows her eyebrows, her eyes taking on a more worried color. “But you’re here anyway?” she asks.

Timmy nods. Let’s go of a breath. _I can’t protect him on my own._

“He’s—it’s Armie. Armie Hammer, or Armand, I don’t know,” Timmy says, feeling nerves bubbling around inside of him.

“What about Mr. Hammer?” Mrs. Evans ask, her voice still kind and calm.

Starring out the window, Timmy bites his nails. His legs bouncing up and down, he tries to figure out how to say this. Why didn’t he prepare a little more thoroughly? What is he doing? This is a mistake. What if Armie was right, what if Timmy is about to make life so much worse for Armie? Fuck, what is he _doing?_

“Timothée--” Mrs. Evans says, pulling Timmy out of his thoughts.

“Whatever you say in here is confidential. You know that, right? And I’m sure that whatever it is, I can help you,” she says, leaning forward in her seat.

_Fuck._

“You have to promise that you’ll help him,” Timmy says, looking her dead in the eye.

“I promise,” she says.

_Alright. Here it goes._

“His father is beating him,” Timmy says.

Now, Mrs. Evans looks just as alarmed as Timmy feels.

“That is a very strong allegation. Are you sure about this?” she asks.

“I’m sure. I’ve seen myself—the bruises. On Monday, he didn’t show up at school, so I called him, asked if I should come over. He said he’d meet me here, at school. He—he could barely walk. His whole face, his stomach—I’ve got pictures, I can show you—," Timmy says, pulling the pictures up on his phone before placing the device on the desk between them.

When she picks up the phone, Timmy can see the realization dawning on her face. 

“He doesn’t know that I took the pictures—I promised not to tell anyone, but I just don’t know what to do,” Timmy says, shrugging helplessly. “He’s scared, he told me so himself. But he’s convinced that it’ll get worse somehow, if he tells someone.”

Biting his nails, Timmy looks at the principal. She looks just about as shaken as he had felt when he saw Armie’s fresh bruises.

Sliding the phone back to Timothée, Mrs. Evans gets up from her chair, rounds the desk and sits in the one next to Timmy.

“You’ve done the right thing,” she says. Timmy nods, not knowing how to communicate how he feels. He’s not convinced.

“It’s incredibly brave of you to ask for help. Now, I promise you that the school is going to help you take care of this.”

Timmy nods again.

“You promise to do something? Keep him safe?” _This is important. I don’t care what they do, as long as he’s safe._

“Of course,” Mrs. Evans says, and Timmy feels a little calmer. Not completely, but a little.

* * *

Coming home, Timmy goes straight to his room, where he throws his backpack on the floor. Sitting on the edge of his mattress on the floor, he puts his face in his hands, focusing on breathing in and out. _I really did it. I’ve broken my promise. Fuck._

Standing back up, Timmy starts pacing around his room. What does he do now?

It probably won’t be long before Armie knows. And what will happen then?

Timmy imagines that Armie’s father won’t have any trouble bribing the school into shutting up. What was he even thinking, telling the school? Half of their funding probably comes straight from Armie’s father.

Timmy won’t be the one who broke his promise to Armie, just to fuck off when shit got real. He’ll make sure that everything will be better.

Pulling his laptop out of his backpack, Timmy goes to the kitchen, where he pulls out one of the uncomfortable chairs and gets to work.

First of all, Armie is going to need a restraining order against his father.

Second of all, Armie is going to need someone to represent him in court. Someone good, someone who always wins, because no way in hell is Timmy going to watch that fucker walk away from this.

Third of all, Armie will need a place to stay, most likely permanently.

By the time the streets have gone dark, and the only light in the apartment comes from Timmy’s laptop, Timmy has made a plan. Well, as good a plan as he could manage on his own. He’s still going to need help. And that help will be home soon, hopefully.

He’s sure this won’t be easy. That it won’t be a dance on roses, and the tight feeling in his stomach agrees. Standing from the chair, Timmy turns on the lights in the entrance and kitchen. Then he gets started on a pot of coffee. While the coffee is brewing, he wanders around the place, feeling restless. Going to the living room, he looks out the big panorama windows, watching cars and people on the street, all of the lights illuminating LA. He should enjoy this view more often. Maybe he should try and change his habits, if this goes well. It’s not that he doesn’t like the living room, or the rest of the apartment for that matter, he just doesn’t feel at home, not really. Everything is still a little too foreign, a little too… new.

Making his way into his own room, he immediately feels a little better. Nothing in here looks like the rest of the fancy, sterile apartment. The hardwood floors are naked, safe for the rug in front of the rustic pallet that works as a bedframe for his mattress. The walls are covered in bookshelves, filled to the brim with different copies. He never really reads them anymore, prefers reading them on his Kindle. But he likes the safety and the cozy mood that they provide.

Sitting down on his bed, Timmy looks around the room. It’s nothing like Armie’s tidy almost hotel-ish room. The whole place is a mess of papers, books, clothes and litter lying around. It doesn’t bother him. The only thing Timmy’s room has in common with Armie’s, is the lack of pictures. Timmy’s got one picture that he looks at, and it’s usually hidden away in a small box standing next to his mattress. He only opens it on special occasions. Such as now.

Opening the box, Timmy doesn’t pick up the picture, just leaves it face down. Instead, he lets his fingers run across a folded piece of paper lying next to the picture. He doesn’t need to read it to hear the words in his head anymore. It’s gone soft and worn at the edges, a sure sign of having been folded a thousand times, caressed even more. _You silly kid. You just have to give him a prober chance._

* * *

Closing the box, Timmy puts it back down. Instead of feeling restless, he now feels clarified, determined. _I’m giving him a prober chance._

When the front door to the apartment opens, Timmy is back in his seat in the kitchen, two cups of steaming coffee placed on the table. He can hear the sound of someone letting out a tired sigh, then a groan, the sound of shoes being kicked off. Then keys being dropped on a hard surface, and bare feet coming towards the kitchen.

“Timmy?” the voice sounds surprised, and Timmy knows that it’s highly unusual for him to sit here, waiting. He looks at his aunt, Michelle, shooting her a quick smile that probably doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, getting herself a glass of water.

Clearing his throat, Timmy gestures at the mugs on the table. “I made coffee,” he says, as if that explains anything.

“I see,” Michelle says, taking a seat by the table. She looks at Timmy, a cautious look on her face.

“You’re a DA, right?” Timmy asks, pushing the mug closer to her.

“Yeah. That’s right,” she says, folding her hands around the mug.

“That means you have to help people who’s been a victim to, say, domestic violence or child abuse. Right?”

“Correct,” Michelle says, sounding vary.

Timmy takes a sip of his coffee, trying to wash down his nerves.

_Sorry to jump this on you,_ he thinks. _I know we don’t talk much, and I know that’s partly my fault, but I need your help now._ Instead of saying any of this, he turns on his phone. Taking a deep breath, he opens the photo album of Armie, says, “I need your help,” and places the phone in front of her.

Taking a closer look at the screen, Michelle’s face pulls into a frown, her eyes darting between Timmy and the pictures. Timmy holds his breathe.

“Timmy. What is this?” she asks, her voice tight.

“Someone from school. Someone important. He doesn’t know that I took the pictures, or that I’m telling you. But obviously, I need to get him away from home as soon as possible. Can you help me with that?”

“What’s his name? Who did this?” Michelle asks, keeping the phone in her hands.

Swallowing, Timmy breaks his promises for the second time. “Armie Hammer. It’s his father, Michael Hammer. He told me so himself,” Timmy says, hands tightening around his mug.

_Please, please, please._

“When did he tell you? Do you know when this happened?”

“He told me on Monday. It happened Sunday night, I think,” Timmy says.

“And where is Armie now? Do you know that?”

Nodding, Timmy says, “He’s at another friends place, I don’t think he’s going to let Armie go home just yet.”

“Good. Hold on a second,” Michelle says, pulling out her own phone and leaving the kitchen.

“What are you going to do?” Timmy calls after her.

“I’m getting a restraining order, it’ll just take a minute,” she says, disappearing into her bedroom.

Timmy waits patiently. Swivels carefully from side to side in his chair, as he looks around the kitchen.

Sips his coffee and thinks about his parents. Thinks about childhood memories of reading spiderman comic books on the couch in the living room, waiting for dinner to be ready, or for his dad to come home. About cuddles on rainy days and affectionate kisses on the cheek before bedtime. Thinks about how he always thought that, when he was younger, this city, this apartment seemed much larger than it does now. He figures it’s really just a question about perspective.

Hearing Michelle come back into the kitchen, Timmy leaves his childhood memories where he usually keeps them; on a special shelve inside of his mind, easy to access and placed tall enough for no one else but him to reach. They’re sacred to him.

“Alright, now that’s sorted,” Michelle says, putting down her phone. Timmy lets go of a deep breath and sinks a little further into his chair.

“Thank you,” he says, placing his hands back between his thighs.

“You said that Armie doesn’t know that you’re telling me this,” Michelle says, cutting straight to the chase. Timmy figures he prefers it that way too.

“He doesn’t, but I will. Tell him. Tomorrow, I promise. He, uh—he’ll probably not take it lightly, though,” Timmy says, folding his arms into a self-hug.

“That’s to be expected. But Timmy, those pictures you showed me—I can imagine that this isn’t easy for you either. But you should know, that what you’re doing right now, it’s a good thing. Armie might not feel like that at first, but in the bigger picture, it’s good. Alright? You might as well be saving his life right now,” Michelle says, looking Timmy straight in the eye.

And Timmy wants to shy away, to advert his eyes and shrug, as if _this is no big deal,_ but he doesn’t. He holds the eye contact and places his palms on top of his thighs. Swallows and says, “he makes me feel like—he makes me feel alive, again. We have to help him.” And it’s the most vulnerable he’s let himself be in front of another person in a very long time. Possibly for years.

“I’ll get to work on this, first thing in the morning,” Michelle says. “It’ll be full steam ahead, and while I never make any promises, I’m telling you, the court rarely takes lightly on cases like these. And with evidence this solid--,” she says, pointing at Timmy’s phone, “—we’re already standing strong. Alright?”

“Alright,” Timmy says, slowly rubbing his sweaty palms up and down his thighs.

“Do you have any questions right now?” Michelle asks. And Timmy has no doubts right now, that it’s true what he’s heard about her. That she’s one of the best in her field. Tough but good. He figures that that might also be the reason why they rarely talk about the things that matters—the big pink elephant in the room--, that it’s because she’s tough but not soft. And Timmy has learned over time, that some people just can’t afford to wear their heart on their sleeve. But if that means that Armie will get the help that he needs, then Timmy is fine with that sacrifice.

Swallowing, Timmy counts to three, gathering up the courage to say the next thing. “He’ll need somewhere to stay. Obviously. And I’m not sure—no, he said that if I did this, he would never talk to me again, so I’m sure—but,” Timmy shakes his head. _Just spit it out already._ “—he’ll most likely say no. But I’m essentially the one forcing him out of his home. So, I thought—would it be alright if I tell him that he can stay here?”

Smiling a reassuring smile, Michelle reaches out a hand, pats Timmy on the arm, says,

“we’ve got plenty of space for three, don’t you think?” then stands up to rinse her coffee mug in the sink.

“Is that a yes?” Timmy asks, needing to be sure. He’s shaking all over, and it’s dumb really, because he just said so himself, that Armie will probably never _ever_ want to be anywhere near Timmy after this.

“It’s a yes,” Michelle says, drying her hands in a dish towel.

Letting go of a shaky breath, Timmy says, “thank you,” and brings his own mug to the sink too.

* * *

Half an hour later, Timmy is in bed. He’s lying on his back, the fairy lights hanging from the ceiling illuminating the picture in his hands. Pressing it to his chest, he closes his eyes.

The first voice he pulls out from his memory, is his mothers. It’s the easiest one, and it doesn’t make sense considering the timeline of events, but somehow, her voice is just the clearest. He makes the voice tell him that it loves him. Then, he mouths the words back.

The next one is the one of his dad’s. It takes a little more trying, and sometimes he wonders if that is his own fault. If he might’ve tried forgetting at some point. He shoves that thought away. He might’ve been feeling something close to betrayal once, but never enough for him to try and forget. The voice does appear, though. It just says his name, the full French version. It sounds like summers on French country sides and picky back rides through the streets of New York.

Timmy formulates an apology inside his mind -like he’s done so many times before- but this time, he apologizes for taking his dads love for granted. And he knows that that is the point of having a parent. That at least, you can take that love for granted. Because it should be granted, no matter what. But he apologizes anyway. Wishes that he could share some of the love his own dad had poured out for him with Armie. Wishes that he could make Armie think about picky back rides too.

Opening his eyes, Timmy looks at the picture again. Kisses his fingertip, before pressing it to the faces on the picture. Then, he puts it back inside the box.

He has just rolled onto his side, placed his hands beneath his pillow, when there’s a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls, knowing that it’s aunt, but having no idea what she wants.

“I just wanted to say good night,” Michelle says, sticking her head into the room. Her hair is down, and Timmy spots a grey t-shirt where there’s usually a white dress shirt. It makes her look even more like his mom.

“Oh. Yeah, Good night,” Timmy says, probably looking a little confused.

“And that--” Michelle looks down for a split second, before she looks up again, her eyes looking a little more tired. “—they would’ve been proud of you today, Tim.”

Swallowing down a lump of emotions, Timmy scratches his nose. It’s not itchy at all, but he needs to do something with his hands. “Thanks,” he says, his voice quiet and genuine. It must’ve taken her a lot to tell him that. They’ve never spoken so directly about his parents before. At least, not since— _no. Don’t go there._ The point is, they don’t do sentimental.

Smiling, Michelle disappears from the door opening, closing the door softly behind her.

Getting ready to sleep, Timmy sends one last thought into the void before he falls asleep, exhausted.

_I’ve done it, mom._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️


	10. Timmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Timmy--” Armie breathes as he all but smashes into him from behind, locking his arms tight around his middle, ready to put up a fight in case he tries to run.

On Friday, Armie sits next to Timothée during their first class. He’s not really following what the teacher says, just sits with his face resting in his palm, staring out the window.

He thinks about how Timothée’s hand feels when it’s resting in Armie’s own. How it feels much smaller, more delicate than Armie’s own. About how Timothée never seems to think twice before reaching for Armie, how when Armie has been the one reaching, Timothée has never pulled back.

_If I just reached beneath the table—took his hand in mine, would he mind? If I just nudged his hand with mine, would he close the gap? Would he squeeze or just, I don’t know, grant me the comfort but nothing more? Would he do the thing where he caresses me softly, smiles at me, letting me know that—that this is something we share, that we can just have without any questions?_

Armie thinks about how two days ago, this would have sent him spiraling. Would have spurred him on to avoiding Timothée for the rest of the day. And he still feels that weird sort of reflex, that chilling knee jerk reaction to avoid his need for comfort. As if his mind still hasn’t heard that Armie and his heart agreed on being okay with this. Because Armie is okay with it. Or, he tries to be. Tries to stay calm as he thinks about taking Timothée’s hand in his own, maybe letting their fingers intertwine, thumbs caressing knuckles.

He doesn’t do it, but it’s nice to think about. It feels kind of thrilling to let the twinkle of warm happiness in his stomach bloom, growing into a happy place. _Maybe I can just rest here for a while._

As Armie leans back in his seat, he lets out a content sigh and his warm cheeks feels like the happiness spread to his face too. _If, and when Timothée holds my hand again, I’m going to hold on extra tight. I’m going to make sure that he knows that I enjoy it. I’m going to let myself enjoy it._

Casting a glance to the side, Armie makes eye contact with Timothée. For a second, he feels caught and his eyes flicker, before he reminds himself that Timothée is safe. That he doesn’t need to hide here. So, he looks at him again, smiling a small, secretive smile. Timothée’s eyebrows are drawn together a little tighter than usually, but Armie thinks nothing of it as Timothée smiles back.

Eyes flicking to Timothée’s folded hands, Armie wonders if he is cold. He doesn’t know why he would be, but come to think of it, Timothée always wears more clothes than Armie does—so maybe he’s one of those people that always thinks it’s too cold in the classrooms. Maybe, if Timothée pushed his face into the crook of Armie’s neck (like he’d done yesterday,) his nose would be cold against Armie’s skin. Maybe he’d like it if Armie rubbed his hands up and down his back and arms to help him get warm. Maybe, if Armie took Timothée’s face in his hands, his cheeks would feel cold too, and Timothée would nuzzle into Armie’s palm, maybe letting his eyelids flutter closed. Would it feel nice if Timothée placed his cold cheek against Armie’s overheated one?

Pulling himself out of the spiral of thoughts about Timothée’s cold cheek (and honestly, what the fuck?), Armie tries to focus on the teacher. Half a minute later, he looks at the clock hanging above the door. Ten minutes left. Where did the time go? _Did I seriously spend the whole class daydreaming about Timothée’s face and hands? Holy hell._

Armie really isn’t doing a great job in concentrating. It only takes about a couple of seconds before he’s back to wondering what Timothée had been up to yesterday after school. It had taken a lot of fucking nerve for Armie to ask him to join him and Nick after school. And, even before that, it had taken a lot of balls to walk up to him at lunch. To ask why he was avoiding Armie. To tell Timothée to please don’t pull away from me. _Please._

And when Timothée had declined, Armie had felt kind of stupid, kind of like a ten-year-old telling their friend to deliver a love letter to the girl with pig tails for them. But then he had reminded himself that he wasn’t ten and he hadn’t written any freaking love letter, and Timothée had probably been busy, occupied, whatever. That Armie had no business trying to monopolize Timothée’s time. So, he’d shaken it off and had a nice time with Nick. Had been surprisingly good at _not_ thinking about Timothée for the rest of the day. But the feeling that Timothée is still being distant, still retreating from Armie, hasn’t left him.

So, today Armie is going to convince Timothée that he doesn’t need space. Not from him, anyway. He’s going to do his very best at being nice. 

When the teacher finishes up and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, people talking and bags being zipped closed fills the room, Armie is ready to offer Timothée a cigarette. Maybe ask if he had a nice day yesterday. He’s ready to reach out a hand, place it on Timothée’s arm and ask him to join Armie outside, when the teacher calls his name.

“Mr. Hammer, can I see you up here for a second?”

Feeling the obligatory jolt of panic, the quick scan of the past hours to find out what he’d done wrong, Armie comes up with nothing. _Worst case, it’s about me not showing up on Monday. It’s nothing._

Walking to the front of the class, Armie tries to smooth his features into an easy expression.

“Sir?” Armie says, when he reaches the teacher, who’s looking down at the papers he seems to be sorting through.

“You’re wanted at the principal’s office,” the teacher says, barely sparring Armie a glance.

_That’s… odd. What could I have done?_

Hoisting his backpack, a little further up his shoulder, Armie clears his throat, says, “thank you,” and starts towards the door. _Better get it over with._

He stops though, when he hears Timothée calling after him. Looking over his shoulder, he spots him, making his way towards Armie.

“Armie, do you have a minute?”

“Uh not really, but later?” Armie says, shooting him an easy smile.

“It’s kind of important, though,” Timothée says, not reciprocating the smile.

“Can’t it wait a couple of minutes? I’ll be quick. Meet me out back?” Armie answers, already starting to walk away again.

“But, Armie--” Timothée objects, his voice on the verge of desperate.

“I’ll be quick!” Armie says, waving a hand over his shoulder. _I’ll be quick, and then I’ll be there. Believe me, I’d rather listen to you, than the principal._

Just as Armie is outside the principal’s door, he hears Timothée calling down the hallway, “Armie, fuck, wait!” and Armie turns around, frowning. _What’s going on with him?_

“What?” Armie asks, hand already on the doorknob.

“Please, just—forgive me. Please,” Timothée says. He looks pale. Nauseous.

_Forgive? Why?_

Armie looks a little closer at Timothée. Looks him in the eyes, and Armie feels all the blood draining from his face. _No. He didn’t. He promised._

His face set in a hard frown, Armie tightens his jaw. All of the warm fuzziness is gone, replaced with a cold void and disappointment. Turning around, Armie opens the door, steps inside the office and lets the door slam shut in Timothée’s crumpling face.

Letting his eyes scan the room, Armie feels his heart plummeting through the floor. By the window, stands his coach. In one of the seats in front of the desk is a woman, Armie vaguely identifies her as the school therapist. _At least my parents aren’t here. That would’ve really been the icing on the fucking top._

“Armie,” the principal says, standing from her chair. “Please, take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the only unoccupied seat left. 

“What is this?” Armie asks, taking a seat. _As if you need to ask. You know very well what this is. It’s backstabbing. Betrayal._

“I’ve asked you to come here today, because we’ve got reason to suspect that you are being exposed to violent behavior at home, and that you might be a victim of abuse,” Mrs. Evans says, leaning forward in her chair.

Armie doesn’t say anything. Just sits in the chair, trying to breath, as he stares at the dark mahogany desk in front of him. _I should never have told him. How stupid was I to ever trust him?_

“The thing is, Armie, that you turned eighteen last year. Which means, that legally, you’re not a child, so the school is under no obligation to go to the police. Now, I want you to know, that right now, we’re the only ones that know. And that this is an opportunity for you to speak freely, to ask for any and all help you need.” _What? How’s that— what’s that supposed to mean?_

“So, you haven’t gone to the police?” Armie asks, looking up from the slightly darker spot on the desk.

“We haven’t. The reason why I’ve established this meeting, is to give you a chance to speak. To tell us whether our suspicion is correct or not. And, in case that it is true, we, in this room—” Mrs. Evans gestures at the room, looking Armie in the eye, “—are here to help you.” 

“How’s that? Help?” Armie asks, feeling taken aback, confused.

“You spent a lot of hours in this facility, Armie,” the coach says. It’s the first time he’s spoken up, and Armie feels weird having the man standing there, in regular clothes, not yelling about tactics and field positions.

“So, whatever you need to feel safe, at least here, we want to offer you that,” the coach says, leaning against the windowsill. The sun is beaming through the windows, casting the man in a shadow.

“While we’re under no obligation to report to the police based on suspicions because you’re legally an adult, we are ready to do so if you want us to. And while the school unfortunately can’t offer you any legal aid, we will you support you in finding that elsewhere. If that is what you want,” Mrs. Evans says.

Armie furrows his eyebrows, swallowing. They haven’t told the police? Legal aid? What—what is all this?

Seemingly picking up on Armie’s confused state of mind, the therapist speaks up.

“The school might not be able to provide legal aid, but we can offer you mental aid. My office is open at all hours, and as you may know, I’m subjected to service confidentiality. Any time you feel the need, just drop by my door. As soon as you step inside it, whatever you say will be confidential, between you and me.”

At loss for words, Armie just nods. He feels dumbstruck.

“I take this as confirmation, that it is true. Am I right?” Mrs. Evans asks.

“I--” Armie swallows. What is happening? Is this a trick? Is his father standing outside the door, waiting for Armie to make a mistake, so that he’s got one more excuse?

“It’s important to us that you know that whatever your answer may be, you’re safe,” the therapist says. _Or is this just a gig where she reads his mind or some nasty shit?_

Armie opens his mouth. Closes it again. It’s gone completely dry. Then, he nods his head. Croaks out a small, “yes,” and waits. Waits for someone to pick up a phone, to tell him that it was all just a trap to get him to speak. Waits for his father to burst through the door.

None of that happens. It’s as if nothing really happens, a side from the therapist shooting the coach a look and Mrs. Evans releasing a breath.

“Does it happen often?” the therapist asks. Her voice is so calm, Armie is sure she must’ve been through a lot of training to master that.

“No, not--” and then Armie retreats. Nodding, he finishes, “—more so lately.” _Wow. You’re really handing out all the details here, huh? Maybe you should write a biography, make some fat stacks on this shit situation that’s supposed to be your life._

“Do you feel safe, going home today?” It’s the therapist again. _No. but what are you gonna do about it?_

“Not—I mean. I don’t think he’s home right now. He might be out of town.” _I’ve literally no idea._

“Do you have somewhere else to go?” _I’m eighteen, what do you think?_

“I’ve been staying at a friend’s place the past two days,” Armie says, tightening his hands on his backpack.

“Do you want us to call someone?” Mrs. Evans asks, adjusting in her seat. _Who would that someone be? If I had someone, I would’ve called them a long fucking time ago, missus._

“No. Please, don’t. I’ll—I’ll think about it, but--,” Armie says, trying to retreat like one might do when they’ve got a persistent salesman on the phone by accident. 

“It’s alright, Armie. But you should know that you have to keep quiet about this. It might not be safe for you if he knows that we know,” the therapist cuts in. _You just know it all, don’t you? Alright man, tone it down, it’s literally her job to be here._

“I know. I will,” Armie says.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to do anything right now?” Mrs. Evans asks.

“Can I—can I think about it?” Armie asks, already starting to put his backpack back on.

“Of course. Our doors are always open,” Mrs. Evans says, her eyebrows drawn tight.

“Can I go now?” Armie asks, feeling completely out of it.

“If you don’t have any questions, or--” _Nope. Not for you anyway. I’ve got a much bigger mouth to shut up right now, so if you’ll excuse me while I hurry out and hunt down his ass._

“I don’t. Thank you,” Armie says, standing from his chair.

Pulling his backpack onto his back, Armie steps out the door. His hands are shaking, and it feels like the world is spinning. Like everything is out of control, and he can’t do anything but hold on tight and close his eyes. It’s as if all of the control he just regained has been ripped out of his hands and thrown away. _Because of the one person that had just made feel somewhat stable again. Fuck. Him. Big time._

To Armie’s surprise, that one person hasn’t made a run for the hills yet. Armie would’ve done that a long time ago if he was Timothée.

Feeling his pulse rising to something resembling a pressure boiler, his vision going blurry, Armie storms towards Timothée, who’s currently pacing up and down the hallway, biting his nails. Just as Armie gets within reach of him, Timothée looks up, and if Armie hadn’t been so furious, he would’ve noticed his glistening eyes, his tight frown. But he doesn’t. Instead, he points a finger at him and seethes out between clenched teeth, “ _you,_ ” and as Timothée starts backing up, holding up his hands in defense, Armie grips him by the straps of his backpack and shoves him up against the wall.

“Wow, wow, wow, Armie, shit, let me explain!” Timothée cries, not putting up a fight, but instead letting Armie push up against him, squashing against the wall like a rag doll. 

“I told you to shut your fucking mouth! Now how the fuck will you explain the fucking principal knowing about this, huh?” Armie roars, feeling his blood pumping in his veins as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Fuck, Armie I’m just trying to help you!” Timothée says, clutching Armie’s wrists but not struggling anywhere near as much as Armie knows he probably can.

“What, by bringing the school into this? Stay out of my god damned business you fucking liar!” Armie yells and thank god for the hallways being empty. Because this would’ve gone down in history and Armie would’ve gone down too with it.

“Fuck you,” Timothée says, and Armie almost wishes that he would’ve yelled back or something, but he didn’t. He just said it, quietly, as if he’s given up on something big.

“No. Fuck _you_ , Timothée,” Armie says, spit flying out of his mouth, most likely hitting Timothée right in the face. And finally, finally Armie gets the reaction that he wanted. Because a fire starts in Timothée’s eyes, and this time, when he places his hands on Armie’s shoulders, it’s with such a force that Armie needs to take several steps back to regain his balance.

“You’re so fucking oblivious I can’t even believe you! Don’t you think I’ve thought this through a million fucking times, huh?” Timothée yells.

“I think you’re an attention seeking, backstabbing fucker who can’t keep his mouth shut for long enough to think about the promises he made,” Armie spits, and this will surely make it to the top-three of things he’ll regret later. But so, what? He’s fucking angry and hurt, and Timothée asked for it. “I think you’re too caught up in your own perfect little world to consider the consequences of your fucking actions. Where the hell am, I supposed to go now, huh? I can’t fucking go home now without risking him finding out, you idiot!”

“Fuck you, Armie! I’d rather have you never talking to me again than seeing that piece of crap ever laying a hand on you again! I’d sacrifice every-fucking-thing to keep you safe from him and you don’t fucking see it, you self-centered son of a bitch!” Timothée bursts back, his face scrunched up in hurt and frustration.

Hitching in a breath, Timothée turns on his heel, marching down the hallway. Stopping, he turns around and says, “and by the way, I _have_ thought about everything! If you’d just listen, you’d know that you can stay at my place as long as you’d fucking like!”

Then, he continues down the hallway, steps speeding up. And Armie—Armie just stands back. Stands back in the empty hallway, watching Timothée’s retreating back. Watching as he raises a hand to his face. Listens, to echoing footsteps and sniffles that suddenly morphs into a cry, and Armie wants to take it all back. Wants to rewind, because what had Timothée just said? _Sacrifice everything. Forgive me. Stay at mine. What? Thought about everything?_ Fuck. _What is he doing?_

Feeling all anger poofing into thin air as suddenly as it had appeared, Armie feels his brain short circuit. It’s dizzying, really, to be near Timothée, because it’s that constant push and pull, that constant—fuck, in lack of a better word – that constant leveling each other out, and sometimes it happens so fast Armie barely registers before it has happened. It’s frightening and thrilling and Armie wants peace, but at the same time he wants more, craves more.

Setting into motion, Armie runs after Timothée, his sneakers screeching against the linoleum, the sounds of “Stop, stop!” bouncing around the walls of the empty hallways.

It warns Timothée, who stops in his steps, but keeps his back to Armie. As if waiting for the last onslaught, the last _fuck you._ As if not at all expecting Armie to do what he does next.

Because Armie’s emotions are like a roller coaster ride, and who can blame him at this point really. Right now, he honestly doesn’t give one flying shit, because one of the only persons who has ever stood up for him, ever picked up a metaphorical sword to fight, if not for Armie, then at least alongside him, is walking away. Because Armie told him to.

“Timmy--” Armie breathes as he all but smashes into him from behind, locking his arms tight around his middle, ready to put up a fight if he tries to run. And suddenly, it’s as if an invisible barrier has been removed, and Armie lets the _Timothée Chalamet_ drop, because what is the point, anymore?

What is the point when Timmy just stands still, letting Armie drape his own body across his back as if he weighted nothing? 

What is the point, if what he said is really true? If Timmy is ready to lose Armie in order for Armie to stay safe?

Something between them has changed its shape, its conditions, and now, he’s just _Timmy._ Timmy, who turns around in Armie’s embrace, clammy, but steady hands framing his face.

Something has changed, and it shows when Armie leans down, closer, closer, until his forehead is resting against Timmy’s. Until he can’t see anything but freckles and green pools of- what is that? Caring? No, because it goes deeper, too deep for Armie to know its name or its color. So, he just tells himself that it doesn’t matter what it’s called, because it looks nice, so when he lets himself drown in it, he doesn’t panic.

He doesn’t fight it. He just soaks in it. And it’s easy, because it flows out from Timmy’s whole body. It cocoons Armie, and when Timmy starts speaking, Armie can feel his breath on his lips, can almost feel the words before he hears them. 

“I know what I promised, I know. But I couldn’t, Armie, I just couldn’t--” and when Timmy says _Armie,_ it sounds like a plea, so Armie shushes him. Doesn’t nod his head, because he doesn’t want to risk Timmy moving away. Doesn’t think he can carry all of his own weight alone right now. So, he shushes him and lets his hands resting on Timmy’s waist squeeze the fabric and flesh there.

“I know. I know,” Armie says, closing his eyes.

They stay like that for a while. Foreheads pressed together, Timmy caressing Armie’s face as he carries the weight of the both of them. When a curl drops into Armie’s face, tickling his chin, he barely remembers why they were screaming mere minutes ago.

_If I just leaned in—bend down a little further and pressed my mouth against his. Took his lips in mine and breathed his name—would he answer with mine? Would he lick back, would he pull me closer? Or would he let me take what I need -he always does, always just offers and gives- but nothing more? It’s like he’s an ocean of my darkest desires and deepest needs, always letting me drown in him, and every time I start gasping for air, he gives me that look, or touches me like this, and I forget all about my own asphyxiation, my own pain and burning lungs. When it’s just him and no one else, not even my own thoughts, it feels like—it feels like heaven._

Just as Armie feels his head leaning in on its own, Timmy’s pinky brushing his earlobe sending a spark of surging need down Armie’s spine, Timmy pulls back. He pulls back, and Armie had been ready. Had been ready to let out a primal sound that’s still stuck in his throat and take, take, take, hoping that to Timmy, it would be the equivalent of giving. 

“We should talk,” Timmy says, staying in place, his thumbs caressing Armie’s cheekbones. Armie can hear the sound of skin against stubble, and suddenly he wonders how Timmy’s cheeks would feel. As soft as they look? Or would he be able to feel traces of the tiny mustache he saw on Instagram, ages ago, if he just leaned a little closer—maybe with the brush of his upper lip, or the tip of his tongue—

“Beneath the tree?” Armie asks, snapping out of it, clearing his throat and letting go of Timmy. He was right about not being ready to let go, though, and he almost reaches out and grabs Timmy’s hand. _Almost._

“Beneath the tree,” Timmy agrees, turning around to lead the way.

Sitting down on the grass, Armie offers Timmy a cigarette. Tries to shake the instinct to reach out and grab Timmy by the ancles, pulling him close and just— _just what? You know what happened last time you thought that you could just take. It doesn’t work like that, not with Timmy. He’ll tease and tease, and he won’t relent until you’re on your knees, pleading like a dying person in front of an altar. Just—be grateful that he’s your friend._

It’s a little dizzying how fast he went from wanting to rip out Timmy’s throat to feeling like he needs to devour him in order to survive. _Maybe there’s just not much of difference between the two. Sometimes it feels like they stem from the same place, following hand in hand._

“I gave you my only lighter--” Timmy admits, cigarette placed between index and middle finger.

And Armie is already holding on tight today, so when he lights his own cigarette and passes it on

to Timmy, he barely thinks about it. 

Handing Armie the unlit cigarette, Timmy sucks on the one Armie just had between his lips. _It’s the closest I’ll ever be to touching his mouth. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got,_ Armie thinks. 

Blowing out a plume of smoke, Timmy starts nibling at his bottom lip.

“Have they told the police?” Timmy asks.

“No,” Armie says, sucking on his own cigarette and shaking his head. “Something about me being eighteen. I think they just wanted to make sure that I didn’t—you know. Go back home and got beat up again or something,” he says, mumbling the last part. _Better get used to talking about it. This little devil sure doesn’t look like he’s going to let up._ And Armie barely notices, but this time, the word _devil_ feels more like an endearment than a degrade. 

“Oh. Right,” Timmy says, nervously scratching his hair.

“What is it?” Armie asks, taking in Timmy’s sudden fiddling behavior.

“Promise you won’t go off on me again?” Timmy asks, shooting Armie a look.

“Why? What have you done?” Armie asks, subconsciously sucking a little harder on his cigarette.

“Just promise.”

“Alright. I promise. Now spit it out, you’re making me nervous.”

Pulling in a deep breath, Timmy looks down, avoiding Armie’s gaze.

“Your father can’t touch you anymore. But—that also means, that you can’t go home. Not as long as he’s there anyway,” Timmy says.

“What are you talking about?” _My father never asks first. What is he on about?_

“You’re going to hate me now, but please, I did it to help you, alright?” Timmy says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. And Armie almost promises right there not to hate Timmy, because he looks so nervous. But Armie knows better than to trust his temper around Timmy—they basically feed off of each other’s tantrums half the time.

“Timmy, seriously--”

“My aunt is a district attorney. And a fucking good one at that. What was I supposed to do, Armie? He’s dangerous, and I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t fucking stand thinking about--” _hold up, hold up, hold up!_

“What did you do?” Armie asks, already knowing the answer but feeling his stomach churning just thinking about what it might entail.

“I told her. I asked her to help you, and she agreed immediately. She went and fixed up a restraining order right away, and—look, you’ve got a lawyer now. You’re safe, and--”

“A restraining order? Really?” Armie barks out a laugh. This isn’t funny, not in any fucking way, but the way Timmy looks so-- so—oblivious, _that_ is funny.

“What’s funny?” Timmy asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Do you think he cares about that? Huh? Do you think he knocks on my door and says please and thank you before he takes shit out on me?” Armie asks, his voice taking on a bitter edge that makes Timmy’s jaw tighten, his eyes hardening.

“Then what do you suggest? Because that’s the only civil solution I had in mind at that time, Armie,” Timmy says, giving Armie that look that says, _come at me,_ and Armie despises it and lives for it at the same time.

They’re quiet for a while. Armie doesn’t know what to say—Timmy is right, and when it comes down to basics, Armie is so fucking grateful that he could cry. But instead of telling Timmy that, he needs to know how big a percentage of this city knows by now.

“How many people have you actually told, Timmy? Be honest.”

“I told the principal. Then, I realized that she couldn’t help you as good as my aunt can, and then I told her too. But that’s it, I promise,” Timmy says, a pleading expression on his face.

Armie huffs. Looks out at the school parking lot and flicks his cigarette. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Chalamet.” _You’re the bravest person I know. Where have you been?_

“I know,” Timmy says, holding his breath as he looks at Armie.

“A district attorney. What good is that going to do me?” Armie asks, feelings his nerves bubbling all the way up his stomach, spreading to his chest, wrapping around his heart and his lungs before it twists around his trachea, its branches almost reaching his tongue. Puffing on his cigarette, he squashes the whole thing down. Tells it to, _kindly fuck off and die._

“She’ll build your case, defend you in court. She said that—fuck. She says that withtheevidencewehaveourcaseisstandingstrong,” Timmy says, spitting the rest out so fast, Armie has to strain his ears to cut it into smaller sequences. When he does, he’s still not following.

“What evidence? We don’t have any,” Armie says, eyes zooming in on Timmy’s face.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Timmy doesn’t look at Armie as he says the next thing.

“I might’ve--” he swallows, pulls at his hair, long fingers tangling in curls and it almost looks painful. “I might’ve taken pictures of your bruises when you were sleeping that night,” Timmy says, his voice shaking. And Armie can understand why. Because even his thoughts are just a whispered _what?_

Armie doesn’t say anything. Just feels something cold in his stomach. Feels his eyes welling up, and he literally has no idea if they’re angry tears or sad tears or what-ever-the-fuck-tears, but he’s certain that he can’t speak right now. Can’t look at Timmy. He needs a moment.

Armie isn’t good at identifying his feelings. He’s usually either or. Either he’s happy (rarely, but he knows the feeling,) or he’s sad. Either he’s furious, or he’s scared. Sometimes, when life allows it, he’s just bland. Nothing.

So, when he stands up and walks a couple of steps away from Timmy, it’s really _really_ not that easy to differentiate between the mess of emotions overwhelming him. _Is it betrayal? No. it’s too heavy for that. Betrayal is easier to fuel into something else, something more tangible. Is it hurt? No. That one he knows by heart, and the sting that usually cuts through his chest hasn’t been there. Anger? No. He wouldn’t still be here if it was anger. Gratefulness, then? Happiness, relief? No._

 _Defeat? Despair? Maybe._

_Shame?_

Walking around in circles, Armie is sure. He’s shameful and humiliated. Shameful because he was never strong enough. Because he never fought back, never did as he had once fantasized about – hitting back. Sending that monster flying against the air, into a wall or something.

Armie remembers the one time he had allowed himself to imagine it. He’d been so, so angry, and while he had been seething, it had felt good. As soon as he had calmed down, he had regretted everything. Had even apologized to the god he never believed in, and all of gods other god friends, because Armie never wanted to be like his father. Never wanted to turn into that monster.

But now he really feels the shame. The humiliation of being 6’5 and always being the one on the floor, battered and bruised.

Now, there’s literally photographic evidence of his weakness. And Timmy—Timmy had taken those photos when Armie had been most vulnerable, most defenseless.

Timmy stays seated, looking up at Armie. His bottom lip is trapped between his lips, and Armie knows that Timmy didn’t want to humiliate him. The way his green eyes are searching, pulling, tells Armie that Timmy never meant to use it against Armie. _Right?_

Following the pull, Armie plops down next to Timmy again.

“Do you think they’ll make a difference?” Armie asks, not looking at Timmy. 

“They already have,” Timmy says, eyes boring into the side of Armie face.

“I’m not happy about it. I feel like—I feel like everything is out of my control. Like I can’t do anything, and that’s partly your fault. I think—I think it sort of feels like you took advantage of me?” Armie says, his voice calm.

“I know. I understand. I won’t say that I’m sorry, because I’m not. Not if it saves you, but, Armie—“”

“I didn’t say that I’m angry with you,” Armie cuts him off.

“You can be though. If it helps,” Timmy says, sounding like he’ll let Armie feel anything if it makes everything alright again. 

Armie huffs out a puff of air. Digs the heel of his sneaker into the grass. Then, he looks at Timmy, who’s face is all scrunched up, and Armie wants to smooth it out with his hands.

Instead, he leans towards Timmy with his upper body, shoving him gently to the side, a smile making its way onto his face.

“You’re not completely forgiven, shorty. But you can breathe now,” Armie says, eyes squinting against the sun as he looks at Timmy.

Relaxing his features, the corners of Timmy’s mouth points upward. Nudging Armie’s shoulder with his head, Timmy gives Armie a face full of curls. Armie can’t help himself as he leans down, nuzzling his nose into Timmy’s hair.

They sit like that for a long time. Timmy seemingly deep in thought, Armie trying to grasp the meaning of what has happened today.

_The school knows. That might not be as bad as I thought. Even though, I honestly could’ve done without it._

_Apparently, I’ve got a lawyer now, what-ever that means. It’s kind of terrifying. What if she’s not as good as Timmy says? What if he has misjudged the situation completely? And do I even want to go through all of this?_

Looking at Timmy, Armie feels a quiet calm falling over him.

_He’s still right there. Even though I gave him hell. He went completely out of his way to build what can only be described of a safety net. He did it all for me, and he’s still here, and I’ve no idea why. No idea what he gets out of this deal, but maybe that’s all I need to know for now? That he doesn’t seem to make any sort of profit on this, that maybe he’s just doing it for me, what-ever his reasons might be._

Placing his hand on the patch of grass between them, Armie tries to be subtle about the way he leaves his palm facing up. About the way his hand is more on Timmy’s side of the grass than on his own, the angle slightly awkward. But that doesn’t really matter. He’s been wanting to show Timmy that he appreciates him since this morning, and now might be a good time. If Timmy would just help him get there, that is.

When Timmy casts a glance on Armie’s hand, immediately placing his own on top of it, Armie relaxes. Relaxes and squeezes Timmy’s hand twice, before he resolves to just holding on tight.

_Maybe I should feel scared. Angry, panicked even. Maybe I shouldn’t be here, maybe I should just get in my car and never look back. But that might not even be necessary, if Timmy just… stays. Yeah. That might be enough._

“I meant the thing about staying, you know. At my place. I knew that you wouldn’t be able to go home,” Timmy says, looking down at their hands.

“Are you sure?” Armie asks, not knowing how he feels about this. Staying at Timmy’s place, basically living together? Jesus, he only just accepted that he probably isn’t straight. But to live with the guy? That’s just—that’s, man, that’s a lot. _Where else are you gonna go? You can’t live in your car. Plus, this isn’t about who’s gay and who’s not. Timmy’s trying to be your friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Just calm down, man._

“I understand if you don’t want to. If you don’t trust me enough for that, and that’s totally fine. I can—I can ask Nick for you, if you want? Or maybe if there’s someplace else, it’s fine, really--” And for the first time, Timmy looks unsure, on the verge of fragile. And, like, Armie had his doubts about how big of a threat it had been to Timmy that Armie would never talk to him again. Had wondered if Timmy even valued Armie enough to see that as something life altering.

But now, looking at Timmy, Armie feels like maybe Timmy does get something out this. And, like, Armie doesn’t think this has ever been Timmy’s goal, but maybe Timmy actually hopes for Armie to stay with him? However ridiculous that sounds.

“There won’t be any need for that,” Armie says, cutting Timmy off. “Asking Nick, I mean. Or anyone else.” _How to say this without sounding like an eager dumbass._

“There won’t?” Timmy asks, looking hopeful. _Shit. Did I just do that?_

“I mean—if you can spare a mattress? Then I think it’s good,” Armie says, pulling on his shoulder as if he isn’t doing somersaults on the inside.

“Spare a—jesus Hammer, you can have my whole fucking bed if you want,” Timmy says, grinning with his whole face.

Armie feels so relieved that he barely feels the loss of Timmy’s hand in his own, when Timmy stands up from the grass, saying, “you wanna see your new room, or what?”

Rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, Armie stands up too. Puts his arm across Timmy’s shoulders, pulls him close and mumbles, “thank you,” into Timmy’s hair. It’s in no way sufficient comparing to the way he feels right now, but it’ll have to do. There’s been a lot of talking today, and it has left Armie drained, so it’s really a relief when Timmy just squeezes Armie’s waist for a second, before walking ahead towards the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️


	11. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie feels nervous, and it’s ridiculous because it’s literally just a photograph. The real version won’t be here to deem him not good enough for their son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best! Sharing this fic with you is the best! Much love from me to you. Oh, and happy December ❤️  
> Trigger warnings: mention of cancer and suicide.

They’ve only made it halfway to Timmy’s place when Armie realizes that this is fucking ridiculous. No, not ridiculous. It’s _stupid._

He can’t just move in with Timmy. What was he even thinking? He knows the guy for what, a month and now they’re suddenly roommates, as if- as if that’s how things work. It’s not.

This feels like being five and running away from home to live with your best friend in their tree house because your parents wouldn’t let you have a dog or something equally as stupid.

He can’t live with Timmy, because he can’t go a minute without wanting to touch him, taste him, smell him, be close to him and it’s- it’s so, fucking UGH! He can’t live with him, because when he’s not craving him like a withdrawing addict, it’s most likely because he wants to throw him in front of a truck. And how the hell is that ever going to work out?

And what will Timmy’s parents say? No way they’re as cool with Armie barging into their lives as Timmy wants him to believe. No way they’re interested in taking in an orphaned kid. No, not even that, because Armie still has living, breathing parents, they just don’t love him. Plus, Armie is not a kid anymore, not legally anyway. So, that actually just means that he should get his shit together. Figure this out himself. And that’s even worse, because Timmy’s parents will pity him. They’ll look at him as if he’s broken, and he is, but that’s no one’s business but his own. And Armie will look at Timmy and see all of the things that he never got to have. He’ll have to look at the three of them from the corner of the living room. The living room that is probably filled with love and acceptance and pats on cheeks, and can Armie even deal with that? Can he breathe in it? He suddenly feels like he’ll suffocate. Maybe he should just turn around and drive to Alaska instead.

Or, he should go home. Apologize to his father and take the punishment that he deserves for having caused all of this shit. Maybe go see his mother—confess and let her steer him on a purer path. Be the good son. And maybe Armie has gotten it all wrong the whole time. Maybe they’re not bad parents per say—maybe he’s just failing miserably in being the son that they hoped for? Maybe he just needs to pull his act together and do what’s expected. How hard can that even be? Why does he need to act like a spoiled brat?

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Timmy, or Nick, or, or -fuck- his parents. It’s been himself the whole time, hasn’t it?

_I’m the problem._

“Armie--” Timmy says, and Armie is about to say, “huh?” when Timmy yells -no, screams- “ARMIE, watch out!”

Feeling the steering wheel being jerked to the side, Armie feels his blood surge through his body, his heart jumping into his throat as the sound of loud honking and Timmy screaming at him fills the car.

“What the fuck are you doing!? Are you trying to get us killed?” Timmy yells, his eyes wide.

“Shit,” Armie mutters, regaining control of the car, adjusting in his seat as if to shake the panic and shock.

“Pull over,” Timmy demands, clearly shaken up.

“No, I’m fine--”

“I said, pull over!”

“Fucking hell, what is it with you,” Armie curses. Pulling over, he stops the car, but doesn’t look at Timmy. Just glares out the windshield.

“Me? You’re the one ghost driving us straight into death! Is it too much to ask that you let me out before you go on a fucking suicide mission? Jesus!”

“I was just lost in my own thoughts for a second, would you calm down?”

“You were just—fuck, you’re crazy! You could’ve killed us both!” Timmy screams, throwing his hands up in the air.

Armie throws him a glare. Feels his eye tick, the air coming out of his nostrils.

Looking out the window, arms crossed in front of himself, Timmy stays silent too. The only sound filling the air being the swoosh of cars passing them.

Armie wants to scream.

“What were you thinking about?” Timmy asks, his voice hoarse from yelling.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Armie answers.

“You nearly got us killed. I want to help you. So, I would say that it does concern me,” Timmy says, his voice defiant. Armie doesn’t need to look at him to know what his eyes looks like. _Thundering, green lightning._

“Well, you’ve got a habit of thinking that everything concerns you, so I don’t know about that,” Armie says, feeling like he needs to say something. Anything but the truth, of course. But when has he ever been able to distract Timmy with insults? The guy should become a fucking politician.

“Fine. Let’s have it your way, because god forbid that _Armie Hammer_ should ever get over himself and spit it out.” Throwing the door open, Timmy starts to get out of the car.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Armie curses, reaching out to grab Timmy by the wrist. It’s an awful habit, so Armie lets go immediately.

Squinting his eyes at Armie, lips pressed into a thin line, Timmy says, “I’m going to walk the rest of the way. I’m not going to let you drive me anywhere again if you won’t tell me what got you nodding off in the middle of the god damned road.”

“You’re being childish. You can’t walk along the highway, it’s fucking dangerous!”

“Oh, so now _you’re_ going to tell _me_ what’s dangerous?” Timmy says, moving further away from Armie.

“Alright! Just get back in,” Armie says, once again letting up before Timmy. He always does.

Not saying a word, Timmy gets back in his seat, looking expectantly at Armie. He might as well have said, “ _now come on, we haven’t gotten all day, dear._ ”

“I can’t move in with you,” Armie says, looking at Timmy. _Might as well just get it out there before he starts prancing in between the moving cars._

Watching Timmy’s face curl into a grimace that both looks impatient and disappointed, Armie adverts his gaze. _Kudos for looking him in eye in the first place._

“Why?” Timmy asks.

“Oh, come on! We’re not kids, this isn’t how things work, not really,” Armie says, feeling that drained exhaustion creeping up on him again.

“No. Tell me the truth, give me a good reason, a proper reason,” Timmy insists.

Blowing out an annoyed sigh, Armie taps his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Your parents are going to get tired of having me around,” Armie says. There. That must be enough. If Timmy wants a well of truths and confessions, he’ll have to look somewhere else.

When Timmy doesn’t answer, Armie almost thinks he must’ve fallen asleep from pure agitation.

He hasn’t though. He’s looking in the opposite direction, biting at his thumb.

“You don’t have to come up with some excuse, I know that I’m right and it’s fine, really,” Armie says, not wanting Timmy to come up with sad explanations and pitiful eyes.

“No. I understand why you think that,” Timmy says, turning around to look at Armie.

_So, I was right. It was too good to be true._

Looking down, Armie shrugs. Ignores his sinking heart. _It’s fine._

“But there’s something I haven’t told you, Armie. Something you deserve to know if -no- when we’re going to live together.”

Armie looks at Timmy. Sees frowning eyebrows and eyes swimming in sorrow.

What Timmy says next, throws Armie completely off kilter.

“I don’t live with my parents. I used to, but for the last couple of months, I’ve been living with my aunt, Michelle. The DA.”

“What?” Armie doesn’t follow. Timmy is supposed to live with two people; a man and a woman. They’ve got graying hair, green eyes and slim faces. They smile all the time, and the woman probably needs to look up to look at Timmy. One of them speaks with a French accent, and when Timmy is tired, they give him hugs and ask him how he’s feeling. They still check on him at night too, even though he’s embarrassed about it. And instead of making up rules all the time, they tell him to be safe. They never yell at him. Timmy never hates them, not for real. Armie knows this, he’s seen it all. He’s seen it when he has looked Timmy. This is what it’s like when he’s not with Armie, and Armie knows that Timmy’s world doesn’t revolve around him, that he isn’t either at home or with Armie, but still. 

“Can we—ugh. Shit, I haven’t. Man, I haven’t told anyone about this, alright?” Timmy says, voice getting tight.

And it’s the god damned reflex that makes him do it again, but Armie has never seen Timmy look like this before. So, it feels sort of natural when Armie reaches out and takes Timmy’s hand in his own. Encouraging him to go on.

“They would’ve loved you, Armie. They would’ve treated you like their own, I promise,” Timmy says, a wet laugh bubbling to the surface. It sounds like grieve and longing.

Clearing his throat, Armie says, “I’m not sure I understand, Timmy--”

“Well, there’s not much to understand. They’re both dead anyway, so,” Timmy hurries, hand going lax in Armie’s. The green thundering lightning completely gone.

… dead? But—how can they be dead?

“I know that I lied. I know that I told you that I moved here with them, that—that my dad works across town, I know. So please, don’t give me that shit, because I know, alright?” Timmy croaks.

Feeling his heart swimming around in his stomach, as if it’s searching for Timmy’s somewhere in the void, Armie squeezes Timmy’s hand.

“I wasn’t going to,” Armie says quietly. Clears his throat. “I mean. I’m not one to talk either, am I?”

Huffing, Timmy wipes at his nose.

“No. We’re both equally fucked in that department.”

And Armie has never known someone who’d lost both of their parents, so it’s really no shocker that he feels completely lost regarding what to do. What to say. He does know how it feels to mourn something that you only had one chance at in life though, something that everyone around you still has. Something most people take for granted. He knows how it feels to be on your own. He knows that “ _it’ll be alright,_ ” and “ _time heals and bla, bla, bla,_ ” doesn’t help one flying fuck.

“Do you have any pictures?” Armie ends up asking, realizing that he needs to know how these people look. Needs to be able to appreciate them fully, and maybe it’s because he hopes that if he can mourn them too, it’ll make it easier on Timmy. That maybe, Armie can be the one carrying some of the heavy load too this time.

Timmy nods. Leans over and hides his face in Armie’s neck. Armie can feel his body trembling, and the position is awkward, but Timmy is sniffling and the skin on his neck is wet, so Armie doesn’t care. Just cares about giving something back to Timmy that Timmy has been giving him for days now.

“I’m sure they were amazing people,” Armie says, scratching Timmy’s hair. _God, I want to put him in my pocket. Take all of his pain and give him no reasons not to smile._

Pulling back, Timmy breathes out, wipes a hand down his face and nods. Puts on his seatbelt, and Armie takes that as a sign that this was enough.

So, he pulls back out into the traffic. Puts the blinker on, looks across his shoulder twice and drives like a god damned grandpa on a Sunday afternoon, all the while side eyeing Timmy. 

* * *

“You sure your aunt agreed to this?” Armie asks, feeling awkward as he stands in the strange hallway, not knowing where to put his jacket. There are no coat racks, and everything looks so polished and perfect.

“Of course,” Timmy says, sliding a closet open that Armie hadn’t even noticed. Taking Armie’s jacket, Timmy says, “you can put your stuff in here too later,” and hangs up both of their jackets.

Walking down the hallway, Timmy points at a door, say’s “kitchen is in there.” Continues into a huge room with floor to ceiling windows covering one wall, a beige couch and a coffee table made out of what looks like pure glass in the middle. “This is the living room, if you haven’t guessed already,” Timmy says, throwing out his hands and spinning around himself.

“It’s-” Armie clears his throat, “- it’s really nice,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“It’s fine, I guess. I don’t spend much time out here, so,” Timmy says, walking out of the room.

Stopping in front of a white door, Timmy puts his palm against it. Looks at Armie and says, “my room,” before pushing the door open.

Taking in the room, Armie’s only thought is _Timmy._ Because the room is so much Timmy. It’s in the colorful clothes strewn across the floor, the walls filled with books, the mattress on the floor, and Armie can tell that it’s not due to still needing to buy a bedframe. It’s the fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, the posters on the walls and purses hanging from the back of the desk chair.

_My little hippie_

Cursing internally, Armie sternly reminds himself that Timmy isn’t _his._

“It’s nice. Very cozy,” Armie says, standing in the middle of the room.

“Well, nothing as fancy as yours,” Timmy says, plopping down in his mattress. Or bed, whatever.

“It’s… it’s very much you. I think it’s better than fancy.” _What are you even talking about?_

Timmy just looks at him, doesn’t say anything. Looks around the room, until his eyes land on something that looks like a shoebox on the floor.

“Did you really want to see pictures?” Timmy asks, fiddling with the box.

“If it’s alright with you,” Armie says, taking a seat next to Timmy. He feels out of place, awkward. As if he doesn’t know what to do with his body, and suddenly he hates his size. Hates that he always takes up so much space, when in reality he would be perfectly fine with just disappearing.

“It’s alright. I want you to meet them,” Timmy smiles, looking at Armie.

_Please don’t say things like that. Please._

Pulling off the lid, Timmy picks up a photograph. Gazes at it himself, the corners of his eyes going soft. Armie feels nervous, and it’s ridiculous, because it’s literally just a photograph. The real version won’t be here to deem him not good enough for their son.

Suddenly, Armie wishes that that was an opportunity. On Timmy’s behalf anyway.

Then, Timmy hands it over, and Armie takes it, his hands shaking.

Staring back at him, are those two people that he made up such a perfect picture of in his head.

They look nothing like Armie’s imagination, but then again, he was right about the kind eyes.

About the smiles.

They both look so much like Timmy, the woman having the same hair color and eyes, the man the same sculptured features. It’s no wonder how Timmy ended up looking like a mix between a European prince and an artist. 

“You look so much like them,” Armie says, not taking his eyes off of the picture.

“My mom’s name is Nicole,” Timmy says. “And my dad’s name is Marc. He’s the one who insisted on _Timothée._ My mom wanted to just call me Timothy or Timmy because she believed that Americans would never get used to Timothée. I guess she was right about that one.”

“There’s already millions of Timothy’s out there. Timothée suits you.” Armie says, decisively not looking at Timmy. _There’s only one of you,_ is what he really means.

“See? My dad would’ve liked you already,” Timmy says, nudging Armie’s shoulder.

Armie clears his throat. Considers if he should ask his next question, or just wait for Timmy to open up about it himself. But then again, Timmy has a habit of pulling the truth out of Armie the minute he senses one being there, almost like you would rip off a band aid. Armie can do the same.

“What happened?” Armie asks, risking a glance at Timmy.

Sighing, Timmy pulls his legs up on the mattress, resting his chin in his knees. Armie considers putting his arms around him but decides not to. Maybe later.

“My mom,” Timmy says, closing his eyes. Doesn’t say anything for a beat, and then, “when I was fourteen, they found a lump in her chest. It had been there for some time. Uh—too much time I guess.” Pulling in a deep breath, Timmy opens his eyes. They’re glazed over, and yet, he smiles at Armie. As if smoothing over the awfulness of losing a parent with a smile Armie knows isn’t genuine.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Armie says, feeling his heart restrict.

“On my fifteenth birthday, she just didn’t wake up,” Timmy says. His voice is shaky, and the tear running down his cheek washes away the smile.

Armie feels like his heart has just stopped. Like, if he breathes, he’ll burst. Pictures of Timmy in bed, waiting for his parents to wake him up. Of Timmy eventually getting up himself. Handing the photo back to Timmy, Armie swallows.

“Anyway, my dad didn’t cope well. They told me that he probably didn’t even feel a thing. That he was out cold before—shit,” wiping at his face, Timmy hugs his legs tighter.

“Tim. You don’t have to, I get it--” Armie wants to stop him. Doesn’t know if it’s for his own sake or Timmy’s.

“No. I want to. Please,” Timmy says looking Armie straight in the eye.

Armie hesitates. Then, he nods, telling him to go on.

“I was at school, and the neighbor had called the police before I even got home, so I didn’t see. He’d—he’d just parked the car in our garage. Closed the door and turned on the engine. He was basically just sleeping, like my mom.”

“Tim--”

“I wasn’t enough for him, Armie. I wasn’t enough,” Timmy chokes, his face scrunched up.

“No, don’t say that. Please,” Armie says, feeling his own emotions bubbling to the surface.

Releasing his hold on his legs, Timmy crawls towards Armie, who scoots back on the mattress and opens his arms.

“You’re enough,” Armie says, holding on tight. “You’re more than enough.” Rocking Timmy back and forth, Armie thinks about how much _enough_ Timmy is. How Timmy is enough for Armie to go on. To fight his own demons, his own fears. To run from his own home, to look himself in the eye and try and be honest.

“Then how could he do it? How could he leave me like that? I miss her too! I want her back too,” Timmy sobs, his face squeezed into the crook of Armie’s neck.

And Armie wants to take his face between his hands and lick away the tears. Wants to kiss Timmy so deep that he will never ever doubt himself again. Wants to tell him how it feels like Armie can’t breathe if he thinks about a world without Timmy. How, if Armie was capable of feeling and recognizing love, he would tell Timmy how much he loves him.

But Armie isn’t sure what that means, or how he loves Timmy, or how to even say those things. So, instead, Armie kisses Timmy on top of his head. Holds on extra tight and tells Timmy over and over again, that he’s enough. Like it’s suddenly the only word he knows, and in some ways, it is, because isn’t that why Armie has come this far? Isn’t it because, at the end of the day, Armie would be alright with letting go of the expectations he’s been living with for eighteen years, if that meant having Timmy in his life instead? And Armie doesn’t know what role Timmy will have in his future, what role Armie wants him to have. But he does know, that if all else fails, Timmy will be more than enough.

All he can do is hope, that he himself, will be enough for Timmy right now.

They fall asleep. Armie on his back with Timmy on his chest, photograph pressed in between them. At some point, Timmy wakes up to the sound of the front door opening and closing again. He feels cold and disorientated, so he pulls the covers over the both of them and places the photograph next to his pillow. Looks at Armie for a second, making sure that he’s sleeping. Then, he leans down and presses his lips to the corner of Armie’s mouth, before he cuddles into him again and falls back to sleep. The emotional exhaustion and sleepless nights have caught up on Timmy, and he’s so unconscious that he doesn’t feel the kiss being pressed to his forehead only minutes later. 

* * *

Saturday morning, Armie wakes up with a dry mouth. He’s still wearing his jeans, and Timmy’s mouth is adjusted so that every time he exhales, his stale morning breath is fanning over Armie’s face.

Grunting, Armie rubs his eyes and pushes up on his elbows. Feeling like he’s about to melt, Armie kicks off the covers and his socks. The cool air hitting his feet is a true blessing. Looking at Timmy, Armie tries to figure out if he should lie back down and stare at him like a creep, or if he should wake him up. It feels weird to be the only awake in a stranger’s apartment.

“Timmy,” Armie says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Mmm, Armie--” Timmy mumbles, reaching out a hand and pats Armie on the stomach.

Armie knows he should say something, move out of the way. Should definitely not look at Timmy’s hand moving dangerously close to his thankfully jean clad crotch.

“’M cold,” Timmy whines, pulling at Armie’s waist. _Fuck. And I’m hot. Boiling, melting, hot._

When Timmy pulls himself flush against Armie’s body again, Armie holds his breath. Prays to whoever needs to be prayed to, that Timmy will be fully conscious soon and stop torturing Armie like this. _You need to do something, man. This is not how you act around your new roomie._

“Timmy. Dude, wake up,” Armie says, trying to roll away. Opening his eyes and letting go of Armie, Timmy groans, his face frowning.

“’s Saturday, you nuisance,” Timmy grumbles. Turning around, his back to Armie, he pulls the covers all the way over his face. Only a wild tuft of curls sticks out. Armie feels his resolve melting away faster than the arctic.

_How do I tell him that I’m perfectly aware what day it is? That his aunt is probably awake, right outside the door. That I feel rude laying in here. That I need to pee, but don’t know where the bathroom is, and what if I run into the aunt while I look for it? How do I tell him that I’m hungry, but that I don’t want to be a rude guest? How do I tell him that I can’t have him in my arms anymore, or I might go nuts?_

Laying back down, Armie folds his hands on top of his hollow stomach.

_Don’t let him fall back to sleep. You never know when he wakes up again._

Feeling a little ridiculous, Armie nudges Timmy in the tendon of his knee with his toe.

“Timmy.” Armie gets a grunt and a swat of a hand in return.

“Tiiimmyyy,” Armie says again, pulling out the vowels for extra effect.

“Either you cuddle, or you go away,” Timmy grumbles.

Armie is not going to do either of those. Nudging Timmy again, Armie gets a small shriek in return, as Timmy jerks his leg away. And Armie can’t help himself, wants to hear more. So, it’s really only his lack of maturity and self-control that’s to blame, when throws himself on top of Timmy, letting an assault of tickles rain over his body.

It makes Timmy shriek even louder, bubbles of laughter spilling out of him, and Armie basks in the sounds.

“Oh, are you ticklish?” Armie laughs, his face breaking out in a huge smile.

“No!” Timmy screams, his whole body squirming in panic.

“I think you’re lying,” Armie answers, letting his fingertips dance over Timmy’s collarbones, reaching his armpits, just to move on to his tendons, the sides of abdomen.

“Please, please, please!” Timmy pants, failing when he tries to catch Armie’s hands.

“Please what?” Armie laughs, feeling satisfied when he finds a particular ticklish spot.

“Stop, you’re killing me!” Timmy bursts, laughter and panicked pleas floating out of him.

Finally letting up, Armie rests his hand flat on Timmy’s stomach.

“You’re a monster,” Timmy heaves. “Who would do that to good people?”

And it’s just now, looking down at Timmy’s face, that Armie realizes their position. He’s got one arm beneath Timmy’s neck, almost cradling him to his chest, Timmy’s legs aligned to Armie’s. Lying still like this, Armie can feel his hand move up and down, following Timmy’s erratic breathing.

“You didn’t wanna wake up,” Armie shrugs, pulling his arm out from beneath Timmy, rolling away. He needs some distance.

“Well, you’re awfully efficient in the morning,” Timmy says, clearing his throat and getting up. Armie stays on the mattress, trying to get images of Timmy squirming out of his head.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when a pillow is hurled right at his face.

“You coming or what?” Timmy is standing above him, grinning.

_God, you’re beautiful._

* * *

On Timmy’s demand, Armie is sitting by the kitchen table, hands folded between his thigs. To Armie’s relief, they’re the only ones up. Armie supposes that does have something to do with him waking up a little early. Ooops.

“You want coco puffs or… granola?” Timmy asks, his nose wrinkling when he points at the latter.

“Uh, whatever you have is fine,” Armie says. Avoiding the granola all together, Timmy picks out the coco puffs and closes the cupboard.

“Coffee?”

“That depends--” Armie starts, already shrugging as if _please just act as if I’m not even here._

“Well I’m definitely having some, since _someone_ insisted on waking up me up at such an unholy hour,” Timmy says, getting started on the coffee.

“Oh. Then yes, please,” Armie says, immediately feeling awful. He doesn’t want to be a bother. Maybe Timmy had been annoyed for real by Armie?

“Can you grab the milk?” Timmy says, back turned to Armie.

_As in, open your fridge and take something out?_

_Jesus man, he just asked you to do it. It would be ruder not to do it._

“Sure,” Armie says, standing from his seat.

“Here you go,” Timmy says, placing a bowl of coco puffs and a cup of coffee in front of Armie.

“Thank you,” Armie says, placing the milk on the table and taking a seat again. He feels tense as he watches Timmy pour milk into the bowls and then into the coffees. Armie prefers his coffee black but doesn’t say anything. Just waits, his shoulders pulled up about five centimeters higher than usual.

As Timmy starts to eat, Armie tries to do the same, as quiet as possible.

He doesn’t like the coffee though, it’s way too milky. When Timmy has emptied his cup and gets up to pour some more, he notices Armie’s half filled cup.

“You prefer your coffee cold?” Timmy asks.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Armie says, sipping his cold coffee. Timmy sits back down. Looks at Armie, then at the cup. Then back at Armie. Saying nothing, he gets up, takes Armie’s cup to the sink and empties it down the drain.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks confused.

“You could’ve just said something,” Timmy says, placing a steaming cup of pitch-black coffee back in front of Armie.

“Sorry. It was fine though, really--” Feeling a foot nudge his own beneath the table, Armie stops his ramble. Timmy is already looking at him, a reassuring smile on his face.

“It’s nice not eating breakfast alone, you know?” he says.

Armie figures it can be translated somewhat directly into “ _I know you’re nervous, and you don’t have to be.”_

Taking a sip of his coffee, Armie smiles. Hums and says, “much better.

Just as he has started to relax, Armie hears a door open somewhere in the apartment. He tenses up again immediately, his heart picking up its pace.

“Morning,” a woman says. Then, looking up and noticing Armie, “oh. Hello.”

Standing from his chair, making it scrape across the floor, Armie reaches out a hand.

“Mrs. Chalamet. I’m Armie,” he says, trying to smile as politely as possible.

Taking a step closer, the woman shakes his hand, a humored smile on her face.

“So, this is _the_ Armie, huh?” she asks, shooting Timmy a look. Armie doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. “It’s nice to meet you, Armie. I’m afraid it’s just Miss Flender, though. But please, call me Michelle”

_Flender? And didn’t Timmy talk about an uncle?_

Feeling his face heating up, Armie sits back down. He automatically searches for Timmy’s eyes. It’s the only familiar comfort he’s got in this place.

“Chalamet is the other side of the family. Michelle’s my mum’s sister,” Timmy explains around a mouthful of cereal. _He’s such a messy eater._

“I’m so sorry,” Armie says, fiddling with his coffee.

“Don’t be. How were you supposed to know?” Michelle asks, getting some breakfast herself.

“We should go and get Armie’s stuff today,” Timmy says, cutting straight to the chase. Armie’s stomach does a flip.

“Sure. I take it you’re staying here with us, then?” Michelle asks, smiling kindly at Armie.

_Take it easy. Timmy promised it was alright. Well, Timmy promised a lot of things._

Armie immediately tries to shake that thought. He wants to trust Timmy. He’s got no other option.

“If it’s alright with you, mis-- ” Armie cuts himself off. “I really don’t want to be a bother.”

“A bother? Not at all. To be honest, I’m rarely home during workdays and Timmy could use some company. Plus, I hear you’ve got some trouble at home. Am I right?” she asks, leaning back in her chair.

“Well, yes, but--”

“Armie, listen. I obviously don’t know much, yet. But if what I know from Timmy is even remotely true, then I want you to know, that having a place to sleep should not be one of your concerns right now. Alright?”

Armie swallows. Then, he nods. Timmy wasn’t lying about it. _Thank god._

“You’re staying, like it or not,” Timmy quips, nudging Armie’s foot beneath the table again.

“Alright. I guess I’m staying,” Armie says, letting go of a relieved sigh, his shoulders sinking back down a little.

“Good. Now, regarding your things. Is there any time you think it might be safer than others to go and get them?” Michelle asks.

Armie shakes his head. “I honestly have no idea. I haven’t been home since Tuesday. Sorry.”

“That’s good to hear. It’s good that you’re staying safe. We’ll just take our precautions.”

“Well, I’m going to kick that fucker’s ass if he so much as thinks about--”

“—Timmy. Please,” Michelle cuts him off, shooting him a pointed look.

“What?” Timmy snaps, his voice sharp, the clatter of his spoon hitting the porcelain bowl startling Armie a little.

“Do you honestly think violence is the solution here? Hm?” Michelle asks.

Armie wants to disappear. He can’t stand the thought of Timmy getting anywhere near his father, and he doesn’t want him to get a scolding because of him.

“Sorry,” Timmy says, his shoulders slumping.

Armie stares down at the tabletop, wishing that he could just take this big body of his and disappear.

“Now, Armie. For obvious reasons, you can’t go with us and I wouldn’t want you to anyway. So, I’ll go with Timmy. Do you think you could write us a list with things you might need?” Michelle asks.

Armie feels his stomach tighten again. Michelle isn’t much bigger than Timmy.

“Are you sure? I mean,” Armie says, looking at Timmy for help. Not that he counts on any, Timmy is way too stubborn for his own good, and if anything, Armie knows that Timmy will just try and prove him wrong.

“Maybe we can call Nick, ask him to come along too?” Timmy asks. Armie did not see that one coming. Maybe he does have some sense in him after all.

“Who’s Nick?” Michelle asks.

“Armie’s friend. He knows too,” Timmy says, taking a seat next to Armie.

“I’ll write you a list. But it’ll probably mostly be my clothes and my books,” Armie says. Then, he remembers that his books aren’t exactly easy to find.

“Timmy, do you know where I’ve got my books?” Armie asks, looking at Timmy.

Placing a subtle arm around the back of Armie’s chair, hand gracing the back of his bicep, Timmy nods in confirmation. “Behind the curtain in the back of your closet?”

“Then it’s settled. Timmy, go get ready. I’ve got to head to the office later,” Michelle says, standing from her chair.

_The office? On a Saturday? Well, I’ve probably just doubled her workload. Of course, she’ll need to spend her weekends working now_

Armie is just about to follow Timmy out of the kitchen, when Michelle speaks up again.

“Oh, and Armie. We’ll obviously need to talk more about this later. But just—just know that we’re going to fix this. I’ve got it from here.” Armie feels his world slowly starting to spin. Nodding, he shoots a small smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

“Thank you,” he croaks.

* * *

**Timmy**

“You think he’s going to need _all_ of the books?” Michelle asks, hands on her hips, looking at the books with what might be described as a defeated look on her face.

“ _All_ of them,” Timmy insists, getting to work on putting them in an empty box. Armie might not have stressed the importance of them as much as Timmy’s doing right now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how, when life gives you shit, books can be the only safe place to enter. The only place where you can breathe and survive. And if Armie is anything like Timmy, then Timmy is sure that every single one of these copies means something to Armie. So, even if it’ll take thirty trips up and down the street to where the car is parked to bring Armie all of his books, then that is what Timmy is going to do.

“Fair enough,” Michelle says, getting to work helping Timmy.

“Guys, are you done yet?” Nick asks, appearing behind them.

“We just need to pack this library, then we’re ready” Michelle says, blowing a strand of hair away from her face

When all of the books are packed, hangers and drawers emptied, Armie’s nightstand and desk searched through, Nick checks up and down the hallway.

“Alright, we’re fine,” he says, hoisting a stack of boxes up before he starts walking down the hallway.

And it’s not like Timmy isn’t nervous, isn’t looking over his shoulder the whole time. He just doesn’t feel it as much as he probably should, and that might be due to the pissed off rage surging through his body as he picks up the plastic sack containing Armie’s pillow and covers. (Michelle had pointed out that they had extras at their place. Timmy had insisted, figuring that Armie would need the comfort of his own sheets.)

So, when they’re halfway through the house, all of Armie’s things in tow, it’s really mostly due to adrenalin that Timmy does this. And yeah, it’s stupid, because when they’d entered the house, there hadn’t been anyone. It had been completely quiet, not a soul around. And Timmy has come to learn that this house tends to be quiet, even when everyone’s home, so he hadn’t trusted that they were alone. Had just figured that they needed to be quick.

But now, as he moves past the door leading to an office he has never been in, and he spots a shadow of movement from the corner of his eye, he doesn’t think rationally. He thinks with the smallest, most primal part of his brain, and it feels _so fucking good,_ when he stops. Stops, and kicks the door open, making his way into the office. And he was right. Armie’s father _is_ home. Acting like nothing is happening.

Timmy doesn’t believe in hating people. Scratch that, he didn’t believe in hating people, because it always seemed like a waste of energy, and what’s the point really? But this man—this piece of shit. Timmy hates him with a passion so big, he doesn’t think twice about stepping up to him.

Stepping right up to his cold, passive face and sneering at him.

“Your son is the best person to have ever set foot in this world, and you haven’t got shit to do with it. And if you _ever_ touch him again, I swear I’m going to rip off your balls my-fucking-self, you pathetic piece of shit.”

Michael says nothing. Just stares straight ahead, his jaw tight.

“Timmy!” it’s Michelle, her voice cutting through the thick waves of anger rolling off of Timmy.

“I’m coming. I’m done here anyway,” Timmy says, shooting a last dirty look at Armie’s father, before sending a gob of spit flying right in front of him. It lands on the tip of shiny dress shoes.

When he makes it to the doorway, Michelle grabs his arm hard enough that Timmy would’ve winched if he wasn’t so furious.

“You’re nothing! No one!” Timmy yells, turning his head in the direction of the office, as Michelle drags him down the hallway.

“Will you shut up? How stupid are you?” Michelle hisses.

Timmy doesn’t answer, just wrestles his arm free and stalks towards the front door. He has said his piece.

* * *

**Armie**

Sitting in the back of the empty car, Armie feels like it’s been five years since Nick, Timmy and Michelle went down the street and disappeared up the driveway that used to lead to his home.

Rubbing a hand up and down his face, he tries to focus on breathing, keeping worst-case scenarios out of his head.

He is lucky that they even let him wait in the car. Michelle had advised him to stay in the apartment. Timmy had glared at him and told him that under no circumstances would he let Armie come close to his father. Armie had argued that Timmy didn’t get to decide where Armie went. So, they had parked the car down the street. Timmy had looked at Armie, sparks flying from his eyes and told him to “ _stay in the car or I’ll hunt you down myself.”_ Armie would like to see him try, but decided that for once, Timmy was actually right, so he stayed behind.

Right now, he would very much like for them to come back again.

Staring out the window, he feels a wave of relief hit him, as Timmy comes into sight. Michelle and Nick right behind him. And the closer Timmy gets, the clearer it is how absolutely _furious_ he is. He’s positively stomping, his hands holding a see-through plastic sack in a death grip. What is that even? Armie’s bed sheets?

Then, Timmy pulls the door open to the back of the car, throwing the plastic sack in, making it land halfway in Armie’s lap. Following, is Michelle, who’s face is set in a hard glare. Slamming the door shut, Timmy falls back into the seat, arms crossed in front of his chest.

He doesn’t look at Armie, and Armie stays silent. When Michelle gets in the car, her face is almost as hard set as Timmy’s. Thankfully, Nick doesn’t seem as tense.

“You have to think things through a little further before you just act, Timmy. This case doesn’t need the complications of you going on a rampage like that,” Michelle says, putting the car in drive. _Rampage? What happened?_

“Come on, that was hardly a rampage!” Timmy shoots back.

“What did you do?” Armie asks, looking intently at Timmy.

“I just had a little talk with your father. Nothing happened,” Timmy says, his eyebrows smoothing out a little.

“Is that what you call a talk?” Michelle asks.

“My father was there?” Armie asks, trying to swallow the cold feeling of dread.

“Yes, and as I just said, nothing happened. I just gave him a piece of my mind.” _Well, I know what a piece of your mind can sound like. It doesn’t help me calm down._

“I agree with Timmy,” Nick quips.

“See? He fucking deserved to know!”

“What did you say?” Armie asks, hands tightening around his thighs.

“That he couldn’t have asked for a better son, but that he’s a piece of shit that doesn’t get to be proud of you,” Timmy grumbles, not looking at Armie.

_Oh. Oh, Timmy…_

“And then he spat on him,” Nick fills in, his voice smug.

At this, Armie raises his eyebrows, a surprised expression taking over his features.

“It was just his shoes,” Timmy grumbles.

“You’re crazy,” Armie says, feeling a smile creep up his face. Timmy just glares at him. Looks out the window, then back at Armie, who’s still smiling at him. Then, Timmy lets a small smile curl up the corners of his mouth too.

* * *

Armie feels like he’s floating somewhere in between consciousness and dreams. Everything is blurry and soft. His own thoughts are getting louder, his body starting to make itself present again. Turning onto the side, Armie yawns. Stretches his legs beneath the sheets, his toes peeking out from the bottom.

Pulling his legs back up, Armie lets himself focus on what he feels. Soft sheets. A comfortable, firm mattress and the cool breeze from the window above him.

He keeps his eyes closed, and listens. The only sounds are the ones from the streets bellow and if he strains his ears, it sounds as if Timmy is snoring a little.

As he opens his eyes, he needs a minute to adjust. The light is bright, telling him that it’s probably late. _Is Michelle home? She probably went to work._ Rolling onto his back, Armie stretches his arms above his head, a yawn escaping his lips. _It’s so comfortable._

Looking towards Timmy’s bed, Armie feels his stomach doing somersaults.

He’s on his side, hands beneath his cheek. There are curls everywhere, and his lips are red and puffy from sleep. Being able to observe Timmy like this, uninterrupted and peacefully, Armie notices Timmy hasn’t just got freckles. He’s got tiny dark moles too, and the mustache is back. Armie wants to feel it. Trace his fingertip across Timmy’s upper lip, dip it in the corner of his mouth. Run it down the hard edge of his jaw.

Closing his eyes, Armie lets himself divulge in that fantasy. It feels different, almost daring, to lie here in bed, only wearing boxers, and purposely thinking about another mans body. Another mans lips. It feels almost dangerous to think about how another man’s moans and whimpers might sound. How it would feel to touch, down there. _I wonder if it feels different to have another man’s mouth on my dick, than a woman’s. To kiss another man. Is it rougher? Harder? Is it warm? Would Timmy prefer it gentle or rough? I know what I’d prefer right now. I’d take my time. Maybe use my tongue. I’d touch him gently, show him that I- that I—fuck._ Opening his eyes momentarily, Armie tries to steer his own thoughts onto something else. _I’d show him that I can be gentle._

When the sounds of someone deliberately moving around reaches Armie’s fantasy, he opens his eyes. He’d never be able to do those things. He wouldn’t know where to put his hands, what to do. He doesn’t know what would be expected from him, of him.

“You’re waking up the whole city with all that snoring,” Armie says, looking at Timmy who has opened his eyes. He’s a bit bleary eyed, and for a few minutes, he’s completely still, the only movement coming from his searching eyes. Then, a lazy smile spreads across his face.

“How did you sleep? Mattress alright?” Timmy asks.

“I’ve been out like a light,” Armie answers. Then, he thinks about how, yesterday, Armie had been increasingly nerves about the sleeping arrangements. About how he didn’t know if he could handle sleeping next to Timmy again. The guy is awfully tactile, and ever since Armie opened up to Nick about the gay thing, it’s like a dam has been broke. He can’t seem to go a moment without wanting to reach out and touch whenever Timmy is near. It’s unnerving and endeavoring, because for a lot of reasons, Armie can’t just do that.

So, when Timmy had showed him the extra mattress, Armie had been relieved. And maybe, a small part of him had wanted one more night next to Timmy. One more night with arms and legs wrapped around him, Timmy’s smell enveloping him. But as Armie had crawled beneath the sheets in the dark room, he had been thankful to be in his own bed. Thankful, because his heart had soared when he’d let himself think about Timmy brining him his own sheets. About Timmy standing up to his father, no matter how stupid it might’ve been. And for a moment, Armie had been feeling like he might’ve teared up when he’d thought about how safe it felt to be in Timmy’s room. Even though his father was probably only twenty minutes away, Armie had felt like they weren’t even on the same continent anymore. Because Timmy was only two steps away. Timmy had shown how he would fend off anyone who’d try and do Armie harm. And Armie is not ready to think about what that might mean, not at all. But the knowledge that Timmy will go to such lengths as he is right now, to keep Armie safe, that’s- that’s a bit much.

“I don’t think I’ve slept this good in a long time either,” Timmy says, stretching with a groan. Armie looks away when pale arms reach above the sheets, dark hair in hollow armpits coming into vision.

“Do you know what time it is?” Armie asks.

Reaching for his phone on the floor, Timmy says, “thirteen minutes passed twelve,” and falls back down on the mattress with a sigh. _Late, then._

“Do you have any plans for today?” Armie asks, fiddling with the edge of his pillow. _He probably does. I’ll just try and call Nick, maybe go to his place. It would feel weird to be here without Timmy._

“No, not really. Thought we could unpack your stuff and just hang around? Unless you don’t want to do that, of course,” Timmy says, shooting Armie a smile.

_So, I won’t have to find something to do while he’s gone. Good._

“Sounds good. We can do that, yeah,” Armie answers, trying to sound nonchalant.

Feeling the pressure in his abdomen increasing, Armie decides that he really needs to go to the toilet. He just wishes that he didn’t have to leave the room in order to that.

“Do you think your aunt is home?” Armie asks.

“Most likely not,” Timmy says. “Why? Do you need anything?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Armie says. Pulling on the t-shirt and sweatpants lying next to his mattress, Armie gets up. Pulling open the door, Armie makes his way down the hallway, listening out for any signs of Michelle being home.

He’s not sure why he’s so nervous about this. The obvious reason would be that she’s practically a stranger, a stranger whose apartment he just moved all of his shit into yesterday. Maybe it’s because she’s so authoritarian, and not in a bad way. Not like his father. But in a way where Armie is sure that if you fuck up, she’ll confront you about it, straight up with no bullshit. And then again, maybe he’s just so used to listening out, always expecting unpleasant surprises to show up right around the corner, that he can’t help it. Can’t help but being ready to make a dash for it back to the safety of Timmy’s room.

Inside the bathroom, he goes about his business. Washes his hands and enjoys the refreshing feeling. Inspects his face and hair in the mirror, before going back to Timmy’s room.

Once he’s back beneath the sheets, Armie pulls off his sweats. Is just about to ask Timmy something, when Timmy gets out of his own bed. Looking up at him, Armie feels his heart pick up it’s pace, when Timmy makes his way towards Armie’s mattress, wearing nothing but boxers.

Sitting down at the edge of Armie mattress, Timmy looks at him thoughtfully.

“What?” Armie asks, feeling self-conscious and nervous. Expectant. What does Timmy want? Is he going to get underneath Armie’s sheets?

“On my first day of school, I didn’t know you would be there. I had no idea, so imagine my surprise when I saw you sitting right there--” Timmy starts, pulling his legs beneath him, hands laying palms up on his thighs. As if he’s literally opening himself up to Armie. “—and I know that we had a rough start. But, like—when the teacher told me that I’d have someone show me around, and I saw you there, I asked for you, specifically,” Timmy says, all the while looking at Armie.

_He asked for me? Why? So that he could chew my ass into tiny pieces or something?_

“Why would you do that?” Armie asks, completely lost on _why_ someone like Timmy would want to sit next to someone like him.

Timmy shrugs. Looks down on his hands and chews on his nether lip. “Because I wanted to be your friend.”

_Friend._

“Friend?” Armie asks, still a little bewildered.

Timmy sighs again. Rakes a hand through his hair and says, “I guess what I’m trying to say is, that you’re welcome here. More than welcome. Michelle was right about me needing company, and to be honest, I prefer your company over most people. I mean, yeah, you can be a stupid asshole when you want to be, but I’d also like to think that that’s not really you. That—shit. That we’ve got something in common. That maybe we understand each other in a way other people don’t. And I’m not going to lie, I’ve been feeling pretty lonely, since, since—you know. So please, just know that this is your home now, and you can walk around whenever you like, as much as you like. No matter who is home or not. Because in all honesty, we’re all just lost and lonely in this place, and I feel like your presence makes it a little more bearable,” Timmy says, eyes searching Armie’s face for a reaction.

_I prefer your company. I prefer you. We understand each other. Do we? I guess we do. Timmy never needs to ask. Maybe he feels the same way about me. I prefer you._

The words keep rattling around inside Armie’s brain, and suddenly, Armie feels like he needs to trade Timmy’s admissions for one of his own too.

“I made up the girlfriend,” Armie says, looking at the wall behind Timmy. _Stupid. He probably already knows._

“That’s alright,” Timmy says, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter. I made up stuff too, you know?”

_We understand each other._

“Still. I—I’m sorry for lying to you,” Armie says.

“Me too. Maybe—maybe, if you want to, we can stop doing that? Make stuff up, I mean. Like, I’ve told you my biggest secret anyway,” Timmy says, laughing nervously.

Looking Timmy in the eye, Armie still feels safe. Still a little wobbly, a little on edge because this is new, so new, and what if it comes back and bites him in the ass? _So, what if it does?_

Sitting up, Armie folds his legs crisscross, the sheets still covering his legs. Holding up the corner, he invites Timmy beneath them too. He’s covered in goose bumps and Armie can’t take it anymore.

“I guess we can try that?” Armie says, feeling Timmy’s thigs press up against his own, cold, naked arms touching his warm ones.

Reaching out his pinky towards Armie, Timmy smiles. Says, “promise?” and raises an eyebrow.

“Promise to try,” Armie says, curling his own pinky around Timmy’s. Then, “and maybe, if I stop lying about things regarding my parents, you’ll promise not to make any decisions about them without telling me first? Because I need to know what’s going on, Timmy.”

Watching Timmy’s face, Armie isn’t sure, but he thinks it might be regret, maybe guilt that shines in his eyes. “I promise. And I understand if you can’t trust me after all this, but I promise not to go behind your back anymore,” Timmy says.

“Thank you. Because I do want to trust you, I really do,” Armie answers, feeling like he’s about to be absorbed completely in Timmy’s eyes. _God, what is going on with me? It’s like I can’t get enough, like he’s the only person in the world._

Timmy nods. Leans his forehead against Armie’s for a second, before he pulls back. It’s enough for Armie to feel like the whole world stops moving.

“Does this mean that we’re actual friends?” Timmy asks, a hopeful glimmer in his eye.

“Yeah. We’re friends,” Armie answers, tightening his pinky around Timmy’s. They’re still intertwined, their hands resting in Armie’s lap. _If friends is all I’ll ever get, then I’ll take it. I’ll take anything you have to offer. If one day, you’d rather just hate me, then I’d take that. As long as you don’t forget about me. Please don’t forget about me. I feel like I’d cease to exist._

Timmy affectionally nudges Armie’s shoulder with his head, before he rests it there, sighing in contentment. 

Armie swallows. He feels full to the brim with warmth and happiness. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be a little proud to call you my friend,” he says, leaning his head against the top of Timmy’s. _I can’t believe you’re sitting here. That I’m letting myself enjoy it. That I’m admitting to myself that the churning in my stomach isn’t because I’m tired or confused. It’s just because of you. I can’t believe that you chose me that day._

“I’m proud of you too, Armie,” Timmy says, nuzzling further into Armie.

When Timmy releases Armie’s pinky, just to take a hold of his whole hand, Armie feels his chest tighten with pure bliss. _This is already the best Sunday ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Armie might be falling slightly in love with Timmy but who can blame him?  
> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️


	12. Extraordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Timmy’s eyes flicker across Armie face, down to his mouth and back up to his eyes, Armie steels himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, we've reached the time of the year where uni just chews me up and spits me out (=exams) which means that if this fic isn't updated as frequently as usual, it's probably because of that. BUT I finished my first one today, so here's a celebratory update! I don't realy know how I feel about this chapter but hey, it's here, so.

They skip cereal. Instead, Timmy proudly proclaims that he is actually capable of making them _real breakfast._ Armie perches on a chair and raises an eyebrow at Timmy, who rolls up the sleeves on his sweater and pulls forth a frying pan. “Are you ready for the French version of grilled cheese?” Timmy asks, shooting Armie a serious look.

“That depends. What makes it French?” Armie asks.

“The extra cheese, duh,” Timmy says, rolling his eyes, a smile on his face.

“Well, you do seem like a real food connoisseur, so I guess I’m safe in your hands?”

“You can always trust in my hands, sir,” Timmy jokes, his voice taking on an exasperated posh tone as he takes a bow. Standing back up, he winks at Armie, a shit eating grin taking over his whole face.

Blushing, Armie clears his throat and swivels carefully from side to side in his chair.

_Is Timmy flirting? No, he can’t be._

“Do you need any help with that?” Armie asks, clearing his throat when his voice comes out all weird.

“Can I trust you with the coffee?” Timmy asks, his back turned to Armie.

“Uh—maybe?” Armie says, standing from the chair. _Not if it’s some fancy European machine._

“You just have to put the ground coffee in the filter and press a button, I think you’re safe,” Timmy says, raising his voice a little when the food starts sizzling.

Stepping up beside Timmy, Armie takes a look at the coffee machine. It looks like the same kind he’s used to. _Phew._

“Uh, where do you keep it?”

“Keep what?” Timmy asks, flipping a piece of toast.

“The coffee.”

“Oh, right. Up here,” Opening the cupboard in front of Armie, Timmy stands on his toes and reaches up, effectively leaning into Armie.

_How nice would it be if I could pull him close and feel his warm skin through his shirt? If I could kiss that place beneath his hair at the back of his neck—_

“Here you go,” Timmy says, handing Armie a jar filled with ground coffee. “I’m sorry that I haven’t shown you where to find everything yet. Remind me to do it later?” Timmy says, going back to the grilled cheese.

Armie clears his throat. “Yeah. Sure,” he says and forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

When the coffee is made and the stove is turned off, Timmy grabs their plates. “Wanna go sit on the balcony?”

“You guys have a balcony?” Armie asks, not remembering seeing one.

“Yeah. It’s not big though,” Timmy says, already walking out the kitchen. Armie follows, coffee pot and mugs in hand.

Timmy is right. It’s not that big, but it’s big enough for the two of them and a small round table with two chairs. Beneath them are the buzzing sounds of LA, but up here it still feels private.

Sitting down, Armie feels the sun hitting his face, warming him up. _It’s a nice day._

“Cheers,” Timmy says, holding his mug out towards Armie.

“Cheers,” Armie echoes, clinking his mug against Timmy’s.

When Timmy lets out a deep, satisfied groan, Armie almost chokes.

“If I knew your coffee was this good, I would’ve had you stay the night a long time ago,” Timmy says, eyes closed as he takes one more sip.

_Jesus, what is it with this kid today? Or is it just me, reading into things that aren’t even there?_

“I uh, I don’t--” Armie starts, feeling his face flushing a deep red _again._

“Yeah, yeah, not gay, I know. It was just a joke,” Timmy says, waving his hand around as he bites down on his grilled cheese.

“Aren’t you gonna try yours?” he asks, gesturing at Armie’s plate.

Snapping out of it, Armie looks down at his food. Then, he takes a huge bite too. The melted, salty cheese and bread is almost enough to soothe the twisting feeling inside his chest. _That’s not what I wanted to say. I should tell him that I’m not, ugh. That I’m not straight. Right? But then again, we just promised not to make up stuff. This doesn’t count as making up stuff, does it?_

“It’s amazing,” Armie says, washing down his food with some more coffee.

“It’s not bad,” Timmy says, leaning back in his chair, crumps from the toast already sprinkled on the front of his sweater.

When Timmy has finished his food and poured one more round of coffee, he leans back in his chair and pulls forth a pack of cigarettes.

“Want one?” He asks. Throws it on the table and nods at it.

“Thanks,” Armie says, fishing out a yellow camel.

“What do you usually do on Sundays?” Timmy asks, peaking at Armie from his closed lids.

“Uh, that depends. My mother always goes to church. Sometimes I’d go with her. Sometimes I’d stay at home and read. Or hang out with Nick and the guys,” Armie says, pulling in a breath filled with smoke.

“Mmmh. And do you like it? Going to church, I mean,” Timmy says, flicking his cigarette on the ashtray placed in the middle of the table.

Armie shrugs. “It’s not really my scene. I mean, it’s fair enough that other people feel like—like they get something out that deal, you know? But I just don’t know how I’m supposed to believe, when, when--”

“When you’re sitting here?” Timmy finishes for him.

Armie shrugs again. Bites his lip. “It’s not that I don’t want to be here. But... yeah.”

“I get it,” Timmy says. “At least, I think I do. I’m not so sure myself, though. I mean, if there is a God, then why did he take my parents away from me like that? But on the other hand, I feel like I need to believe in something, you know? Not because I need a reason. In this case, I’m satisfied with the reasons science has given me. But I need to believe that they’re some place nice. That they’re not floating around in some cold, dark, void space. I just can’t think like that.”

Looking at Timmy, listening to him speak about his late parents like this… Armie feels like he just had a revelation.

Timmy is not who he thought he was. Timmy is not a spoiled brat, living in the safe cocoon of his coddling parents. He’s just as much on his own as Armie is. Maybe even more. Because what do you do, when you literally have no one? How do you cope, when you have to bury your parents before you even graduate high school? How do you keep going every single day, carrying that sorrow?

Yet, Timmy had done it, and he’s still doing it. He moved far away from everything he knew, to live with someone new, to start over in a new school, without old his friends. He kept dealing with Armie for some reason. Now, he’s dealing with Armie’s shit on top of his own too. As if his own pile wasn’t big enough already.

And it’s not just the sun standing high on the sky that sets Timmy in a new light. It’s the sudden realization, that most people would’ve probably been broken by now. Armie would’ve been broken by now, if it weren’t for Timmy.

Timmy is not a spoiled brat. He’s not some annoying hipster dipshit. He’s not a nuisance.

Timmy is extraordinary. Extraordinarily strong and brave. Extraordinarily beautiful and smart, and so, so kind to Armie. Armie, who he calls his _friend._

Armie almost feels like the wind has been knocked out of him right then and there.

“You can always talk to me, you know. About them, I mean. If you want to, of course,” Armie says, sucking on his cigarette for something to do. _One day, when I’m brave enough, I’ll tell him what I really want to tell him._

Timmy smiles back at him, and he looks grateful. “You too,” he says, putting his cigarette to his mouth. 

“Enough with the dark topics,” Timmy says, standing up in a sudden movement. Squashing the cigarette bud between his fingers into the ashtray, the stretches with a groan. Armie doesn’t look at him, just puts out the remnants of his own cigarette too.

“Have you ever seen the city from up here before?” Timmy asks, standing by the railing.

“I have,” Armie says, staying back. So, what if he’s not that much a fan of heights?

“But this high up, though?” Timmy asks, leaning forward. And Armie can already feel his palms sweating, so it’s really no surprise that his stomach does a steeping swoop when Armie watches Timmy’s feet lift off the ground.

Jumping forward in pure panic, Armie grabs Timmy around his middle and pulls him back.

“Shit, don’t do that!” Armie blurts, feeling his heart hammering against his chest.

Letting his head fall back, Timmy lets out a whole-hearted laugh, the palms of his hands resting on Armie’s chest.

“It’s not funny!” Armie insists.

“Your face! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Timmy giggles, fingers twisting in Armie t-shirt.

Armie doesn’t know if he should tell Timmy off, or cradle him against his chest. What he most wants to do though, is to place a hand at the back of Timmy’s head and kiss his him on the forehead.

“You gave me a shock. Are you crazy or something?” Armie asks, keeping his arms locked around Timmy.

Calming down, Timmy looks Armie in the eye.

“Yeah,” Timmy says, his voice quiet. “I think I’m a little crazy.” Leaning his head back to look at Armie, Timmy lets his hand brush back and forth across Armie’s chest, just about where Armie can feel his heart rattling around.

_Crazy? As in… as in the same way that I’m crazy? Oh god. What is happening? Have I gone crazy in the bad way? What way is even the good way? Who knows anymore? Does he know that I’m holding him? Did he want me to hold him? Was that why he did it?_ _Is he that crazy?_

“Well, please don’t do that again,” Armie says, taking a step back, letting go of Timmy.

* * *

It doesn’t take much time for Armie to appreciate the new living arrangements. For reasons beside the obvious, of course. Being with Timmy outside of school is like a gift of endless new information.

For example, Armie finds out that Timmy can’t stay still while he brushes his teeth. From the second he put his toothbrush in his mouth, he has been wandering around the apartment, all the while trying to talk to Armie about seemingly unimportant stuff.

Armie doesn’t understand half of what he says, but it probably doesn’t matter anyway. Watching Timmy wandering around, a trail of drool and foamy toothpaste running down the corner of his mouth, makes Armie feel oddly happy. _How many people get to see him like this, beside me? I know what Timothée Chalamet looks like when he brushes his teeth. Hah. Take that, rest of the world._

Snorting at his own ridiculousness, Armie spits out his own toothpaste and rinses his mouth.

“‘af ta ‘ow u’ ‘ur ‘ew ‘woom,” Timmy mumbles, sidling up next to Armie by the sink, before leaning forward and spitting.

“What did you say?” Armie asks, an amused expression on his face as he watches Timmy rinsing. He’s still got a little toothpaste stuck on his chin when he comes back up.

“I have to show you your new room.”

“New room? Didn’t you show me yesterday?”

“That’s my room, silly. We have a spare one at the end of the hallway. That’s yours now,” Timmy says, putting his toothbrush away before turning around, ready to leave the bathroom.

_Wait. I get my own room. As in, I won’t be sharing with Timmy? Is that a good, or a bad thing?_

“Wait,” Armie says, reaching out towards Timmy.

“Yeah?” Turning his head to look at Armie, Timmy pauses.

“You’ve got a bit of--” Armie says, gesturing at his own chin.

“What?” Timmy says, wiping at his chin but missing the spot.

“I think it’s toothpaste,” Armie says. _Should I just—no. That would be creepy. Besides, I’m not his mother. Stop being weird._

“Oh.” Standing in front of the mirror, Timmy wipes the remaining toothpaste off.

“Anyway, your new room!” Timmy says, gesturing at Armie to follow.

“It’s nice,” Armie says, taking in the room before him. It’s clear that it hasn’t really been used. There’s a bare, double sized bed, a wardrobe and empty shelves hanging on the wall. It’s better than the mattress on the floor, and Armie supposes that it might’ve been a bit much for his - _uh what to call it_ -infatuated state of mind, to mix his books with Timmy’s to put his own clothes next to Timmy’s. But this also means that when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he won’t be able to listen out for the sound of Timmy’s breathing. Won’t be able to remind himself that he’s not alone, that Timmy is right next to him.

_True. But he’ll still be right down the hallway. And, if I already feel uneasy about not being able to hear him at night, this might be a good time for me to get some space. Before it gets out of hand._

“Well. We’ll make it nice,” Timmy says, a determined look on his face. “You think the bed will do? Otherwise, we can just get you a new one,” Timmy says, taking a seat on the bed. 

Taking a seat next to him, Armie bounces slightly up and down, as if testing it out. Not that he’d ever tell Timmy that he wanted a new one. Besides, it feels decent. It’s much better than the one he’s got at home anyway, for multiple reasons.

“This one is good,” Armie says.

“You sure?” Timmy asks, laying back, spreading his hands out far enough the tips of his fingers to brush against the small of Armie’s back.

“Sure. Besides--” Armie swallows. He has thought about this, a lot. Has gone back and forth in his head multiple times. “I should pay you—or Michelle. Uh—I can’t just stay here for free. It’s too much, and I can’t just have you guys buying me new beds and stuff, it’s—” Armie stops. He feels silly. Of course, he’s not staying for free, that would be ridiculous. And now he just sounded like he expected that. And the worst is that it’s not like he’s got much money on him. They’re all locked up, and with how things are with his parents right now, he doubts they’ll ever be available to him anyway. The rent in this apartment must be a fortune—what is he even thinking? Maybe he should just call Nick, ask him if he could—

“Armie--” Timmy says, looking up at him.

“What?”

“Stop overthinking everything. She’s not going to agree on you paying for anything either way, believe me, I’ve tried too.”

“But—why?”

Timmy shrugs. Looks away.

“It probably doesn’t come as a surprise to you, but we don’t really—ugh. We don’t talk much. Not about things that matters. We don’t talk about my parents. We don’t talk about how we’re feeling. She’s grieving too, you know. That’s what I meant with all of us being lonely and lost,” Timmy says.

“Oh. But… what’s that got to do with rent and beds?” Armie asks, confused.

“She works her ass off, partly because she’s always been like that, partly because when I lost my mom, she lost her sister. So, I guess all of this--” Timmy gestures at the room, at himself, “Is her way of trying to make sure that I don’t feel neglected or something. That she doesn’t have to feel bad about me, too. She works too much to spend all the money she makes, so she spends them on me. Instead of emotional support, she gives me clothes and stuffs the cupboards with cereal that none of us eats,” Timmy explains.

“Oh. I’m, uh. I’m sorry?” Armie says, feeling a little lost. This concept isn’t new to him. Not really.

“Just think about it this way,” Timmy says, sitting back up. “By helping you, by giving you a place to stay and food to eat, she probably feels better. She’s not cold, or indifferent, not at all. So, by doing this for you, she’s making up for what she couldn’t give me. Can’t give me. This is what she’s capable of. Slaying at court and buying us what we need.”

“But what does my—this room, have to do with what you need?” Armie asks, not really following Timmy all the way.

At this, Timmy shrugs and looks down at his lap, picking at a loose thread in his sweats.

“I haven’t brought anyone here, for obvious reasons. Everyone believes that you know--”

“—yeah, I know.”

“Anyway. I told her that you are important. I think she feels better, knowing that I have friends here. That I have you,” Timmy finishes, looking at Armie.

“Important?” The word is almost dizzying.

“Yeah. Important,” Timmy confirms.

Armie swallows. Tries to advert his eyes from Timmy, because his gaze is way too heavy, but it’s like Armie has been spellbound like he’s in some sort of trance.

“You’ll always have me,” Armie says, his tongue feeling heavy, the air tense with something. Something all-consuming, and Armie thinks it feels like desire and Timmy, and those two always follows hand in hand, don’t they?

When Timmy’s eyes flicker across Armie face, down to his mouth and back up to his eyes, Armie steels himself. Prepares for the thing that’s been occupying his mind night and day for weeks. Doesn’t know if he wants to run, because he’s not ready, he’s _so not ready,_ and yet, he wants to stay. Wants to stay rooted to this place, to this moment, where everything stands still. Everything, beside the pull in his chest, the heavy feeling drawing him closer and closer to Timmy.

Right then and there, Armie wants one thing. Can only think one thing, feel one thing.

_Kiss me, please._

Just as he’s about to gather all of his courage and close the gap between them, Timmy stands from the bed.

“So, do you think the bed is fine?” Timmy asks, clearing his throat, before he walks to the door.

Feeling a little shaken, a lot of dazed, Armie shakes his head and snaps out of it.

“Absolutely,” he says, standing up too.

_Fucking fuck._

* * *

Watching Timmy stack books onto the empty shelves makes Armie want to yell out in panic. He should’ve known that Timmy wouldn’t care one bit about order. Doubts he even knows what it means.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks, dropping a stack of t-shirts on the bed.

“I’m unpacking your books,” Timmy says, picking up one more and placing it randomly on next to the other ones.

“How am I supposed to find what I’m looking for when you do it like that?” Armie asks, stepping up next to Timmy. He needs to stop this madness.

“I don’t know, read the titles?” Timmy says, looking confused.

“You’re going to give me a coronary if you place them like this,” Armie says, starting pull the books back down.

“Sorry, I forgot that you’re such a neat freak,” Timmy says, rolling his eyes.

“I just like it when I’m able to find what I’m looking for.”

“You’d be fine. I’m able to find my books just fine without spending hours sorting through them,” Timmy says, starting to stuff Armie’s clothes into drawers.

“Yes, and I honestly don’t know how you aren’t getting a mental breakdown every time,” Armie answers, pulling the clothes back out again.

“If you don’t want my help, just say so,” Timmy says, his voice getting impatient.

“You can help me by not making a mess of everything,” Armie says dividing t-shirts and sweaters back up into to each of their own piles, like they’re supposed to be.

“Are you saying that I make a mess of everything?”

“It sure looks like it,” Armie says, letting out a deep sigh. 

“Well, I’m sorry for wanting to help you!” Timmy says storming out of the room. _What the hell?_

Looking at the door where Timmy just disappeared through, Armie contemplates calling after him.

_No. Too desperate._

Sighing again, Armie puts his clothes away, a weird feeling twisting inside of him the whole time.

Then, he moves on to his books, starting to sort them by alphabetic order.

By the time he reaches E, he has gone through the whole conversation in his side.

When he reaches G, he knows what made Timmy upset. Smacking himself in the head with the book in his hands, he groans.

_“You make a mess of everything.”_

Of course, Timmy would take that literal. Of course, Armie had made it sound like he meant _everything._

Placing the book on the shelf, Armie walks out of the room and down the hallway until he stands in Timmy’s doorway. He’s lying on his stomach in his bed, phone in hand. Armie is sure that he knows he’s not alone anymore, that he’s purposely ignoring Armie.

Swallowing, Armie figures that if the roles were reversed, Timmy wouldn’t just stand here and say sorry. Figures that the best way to win Timmy over, is to do what Timmy would do himself.

Stepping inside the room, Armie makes his way to Timmy’s bed on the floor. Then, he lays down on his back, next to Timmy and looks up at him. Timmy’s still just staring at his phone, as if Armie is pure air. _Fair enough._

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Armie says, his voice just above a whisper.

All he gets in return is a shrug.

Swallowing again, Armie debates what to say next. It’s obviously going to take more than just an apology.

Reaching out a tentative hand, Armie brushes a curl out of Timmy’s face. His hand is unsure, and when the curl is secured behind Timmy’s ear, he doesn’t what to do with it. So, he keeps brushing Timmy’s hair with his fingers. It feels good. Intimate, like something friends don’t do, but maybe that’s just in Armie’s world. Timmy touches his friends all the time.

When Timmy subtly leans into the hand, Armie clears his throat. Opens his mouth and prepares his next words.

“There’s this guy I know,” he starts. “I haven’t known him for long, and at first, we couldn’t be in the same room without arguing. But the thing is, that now—now, I like being in the same room as him. Because he’s different. In a good way, I promise,” Armie hurries the last part when Timmy spares him a quick glance. “He’s different because he’s braver than anyone I know. And he’s pretty smart too, actually. The only downside to him, is that he leaves his stuff _everywhere._ And I’m not like that myself, so I might have a hard time understanding how it doesn’t bother him--” Armie continues, carefully untangling some curls in the back of Timmy’s hair. “—Anyway. The thing is, he probably saved my life by showing up. By being brave and smart. And here comes the crazy part—he wants to be my friend. Can you believe it? Because I can’t,” Armie says.

When Timmy looks up and makes eye contact with Armie, Armie feels a smile take over his face. Timmy doesn’t look angry or hurt. He looks like he’s trying not to smile himself.

“Are you sure?” Timmy asks, twisting his mouth from side to side.

Armie nods. “I’m sure. Timmy—you haven’t made a mess of my life, alright? You’ve turned it upside down, I’ll admit that, but that doesn’t mean that you’ve messed it up,” Armie says, feeling his stomach swim. This is a lot. A lot of truth and a lot of admissions.

Dropping his phone on the bed, Timmy throws his upper body onto Armie’s and hugs his arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry for overreacting,” Timmy mumbles.

“I’m sorry being an idiot.”

“We good?” Armie asks, leaning his head back when a curl tickles his nose.

“Yeah, we are,” Timmy says, his words muffled by Armie’s t-shirt.

Armie ends up putting the rest of the books away himself, while Timmy sits on the bed.

“How come you didn’t want to read that one?” Timmy says, pointing at Armie’s beloved and worn copy of _Anna Karenina_.

“It’s just too special to me,” Armie says, brushing his hands over its cover.

“Oh,” Timmy says, biting his lip. Looking at him, Armie can see that he wants to ask more questions but is trying to hold back.

Picking up the book, Armie sits on the edge of the bed next to Timmy. Opens the book and shows Timmy the first page.

“My grandma gave it to me. She’s passed now. She wasn’t like anyone in my family and when I miss her, I read this one,” Armie says, running his fingertips over the words written in ballpoint.

_“I’ve always loved you, and when you love someone, you love the whole person, as they are, and not as you’d like them to be.”_

”She gave you Tolstoy?” Timmy asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, I agree that it’s not exactly what the typical twelve-year-old boy reads. But she grew up in Russia. All of my father’s family is from Russia. And she loved Tolstoy, so,” Armie shrugs.

“It’s beautiful, Armie.”

* * *

They cook dinner together. Armie is fairly sure that after the breakfast Timmy delivered, they should be safe.

But oh, is he wrong.

It’s clear to him from the beginning, when Timmy just stands by the kitchen, staring at a bag of pasta as if waiting for it to come alive or something.

“You do know how to cook pasta, right?” Armie asks.

“Well--” Timmy says, looking at Armie with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Are you serious?”

“Is it really such a big deal? Don’t you know how to do it?”

“Why would I know how to do it?”

“Wait, are _you_ being serious?” Timmy asks incredulously.

“I never needed to know how to cook pasta!” Armie answers.

“And you just figured that I did?”

“You’re the one who bragged about being able to cook breakfast!”

“That’s because it’s the only thing I’m able to make!” Timmy says, throwing his hands up in the air as if what he just said makes obvious sense.

“Jesus. You’ve deceived me, you little fraud” Armie jokes, grabbing the back of pasta.

“Oh, come on, you went willingly,” Timmy shoots back, a small smile on his mouth.

“So, it says we need to get some water boiling first. We should be able to do that,” Armie says.

“Or, we could order something instead,” Timmy points out.

“No way. We’re both too old not to know how to cook pasta. How will you ever survive college if you don’t get this down?”

“Fine. But if we end up burning the place down, remember that I told you so,” Timmy says, pulling forth a pot.

They should’ve listened to Timmy. But of course, Armie won’t admit that.

So, he fights a grimace when he takes the first bite. Chews, and avoids looking at Timmy as he swallows. It tastes half burned, half raw and the pasta’s texture is _not_ right. It’s chewy, and so what if that means that Timmy’s was right about it needing to cook longer?

Taking a huge gulp of water, Armie keeps up the fight. Takes one more bite and agrees with himself that he won’t be the first one to say anything. Timmy will have to be the one breaking first.

He makes it to six bites and two glasses of water before he feels a foot nudging his own beneath the table.

Looking up, he makes eye contact with Timmy, who looks like he’s trying very hard not to reveal how he’s just about to burst.

“It’s delicious,” Armie croaks, before bursting out in a laugh.

“It tastes horrible!” Timmy cackles, pushing his plate to side as he bends forward.

“What have we done?”

“No idea, but it’s not edible!” Timmy laughs, his face cracked up in laughter.

“We’re not telling this to anyone, ever,” Armie says, wiping at his eyes.

Letting out a sigh, bursts of laughter still bubbling to the surface, Timmy stands from the table and throws out their failed attempt at a home cooked dinner. Then, he grabs the cocoa puffs from the cupboard and says, “come on, we haven’t had our daily cereal yet,” and heads towards the living room.

So, they end up having cereal for dinner, and Armie still thinks it has been the best Sunday ever. Especially when he beats Timmy in FIFA and avoids dish-washing duty. (He ends up feeling bad before Timmy has even gotten started, so avoiding might be a strong word. Anyway, when Timmy accidentally turns on the tap while holding his arm beneath it, effectively soaking his sweater, Armie doesn’t regret joining him. His look of shocked indication is priceless, really.)

As Armie watches Timmy walk around the apartment with a toothbrush in his mouth for the second time that day, Armie feels as if he’s falling with a thousand miles per hour. Remembering the quote from his grandma, Armie tries not fight it.

* * *

Monday morning, Armie can barely eat the cereal Timmy has placed in front of him. He feels awful and every time he looks at the time on his phone, he feels even more angsty.

“Don’t you like Frosties?” Timmy asks, shooting Armie a look.

“Uh, no. It’s not that,” Armie says, forcing himself to eat a spoonful.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just… what if everyone knows?

“Knows what? That you don’t like Frosties?” Timmy jokes. And Armie appreciates his attempt at lightening the mood, but he can barely make himself smile a full smile.

“Not that,” Armie says.

“You’re scared the whole school will know that you don’t live at home anymore and the reason why?” Timmy asks, finishing his sentence by eating one more spoonful of sugary cereal.

“Yeah. A little,” Armie says.

“Well, lucky for you, we’re in high school. People are too busy with themselves to notice anything. We’ll just tell them that I force you to drive me around all the time, if anyone should become suspicious,” Timmy says.

“But people still talk,” Armie points out, remembering what he heard in the cafeteria about Timmy.

“What do they talk about?” Timmy asks, standing up to put his bowl in the dish washer.

“Well—nothing. Just bullshit that isn’t true,” Armie says, trying to backtrack. Now that he knows the truth about Timmy’s parents, he isn’t going to let Timmy know about ugly rumors.

“There you go. Armie, how would they honestly know?”

“I don’t know,” Armie shrugs.

“See? You’ll be fine. Now come on, you’ve got to drive us to school,” Timmy says, walking out the kitchen.

By the time school is over, Armie is relieved to have found that Timmy was right. No one even spared them a glance when they arrived together. Not even the guys. Well, expect Nick, but he knew already.

* * *

On Tuesday, Armie has practice and Timmy has drama. It’s the first time they’re apart since Thursday. Not that Armie thinks about that. _Pfft_.

The thing is, he keeps checking the time all the way through. And whether the reason for that is because Timmy isn’t a part of practice, or because Armie just really doesn’t feel motivated for the sport right now, he doesn’t know. But it’s excoriating, and if the way the coach and Nick keeps glancing at him and calling his name is anything to go by, Armie would say that his state of mind shows.

He feels beyond relieved when he throws his sweaty clothes into his back and walks out of the locker room. Now, he just needs to locate Timmy, so they can go home and talk about something not including sports. Just as he’s about to make his way in the direction of the classroom where Armie thinks Timmy has drama, he feels his phone buzzing.

_Timmy:_ u done w practice?

_Armie:_ yeah

_Armie_ : where u at?

_Timmy_ : parking lot, by the car

Putting his phone back into his pocket, Armie hoists his bag further up his shoulder and makes his way out of the school.

When he reaches his car, Timmy is standing there, leaning against the hood, sunglasses on.

“You look tired. Want me to drive?” Timmy asks, a beaming smile on his face.

“I’m not _that_ tired,” Armie says, getting into the driver’s seat himself.

“Ugh, you’re such a dad sometimes,” Timmy says, the smile wiped off.

“A dad?” Armie asks, putting the car in drive.

“Yeah. You never let me drive, even though I have a perfectly legitimate license and plenty of experience.”

“How did you get that experience? On your bicycle?”

“No. I’ve had my coming of age as a driver in New York. I can drive a car anywhere,” Timmy says proudly.

Armie snorts. “Is that supposed to calm me down?”

“I’d like to see _you_ try,” Timmy says, eyes squinting at Armie in challenge.

“Well maybe one day I’ll show you,” Armie shoots back, trying not think about the fact that that is probably not going to happen. Why would he ever go to NYC with Timmy?

* * *

At night, hours after they’ve had dinner, Armie sits in his new bed, scrolling through his phone. He’s trying to feel at home in the new surroundings, but it still feels odd. As if he can’t fully relax.

It does help though, when Timmy knocks at his door frame, making his presence known as he walks into the room.

“How was your day?” Timmy asks, throwing himself down on the bed next to Armie.

_Fine in the beginning. Then I had practice without you._

“It was alright,” Armie says, trying to stay calm as the smell of Timmy hits him, his body only mere centimeters out of reach.

“Hm. Me too,” Timmy says, resting his head on his folded arms, closing his eyes.

They stay like that for a while. Armie can’t really focus on reddit anymore, so he turns off his phone and stares into nothing. Wonders if it’s possible to make Timmy roll onto his back, so that he leans against Armie by the power of telekinesis. Maybe, if he just manifests hard enough?

Well. He’ll probably have to make do with listening to his voice.

“Why did you choose drama?” Armie asks, looking at Timmy.

“Because I want to be an actor,” Timmy mumbles, mouth pressed into his own bicep.

“Why did you choose football?”

Armie shrugs. He’s not really sure.

“It was just there, I guess. Because I’m good at it?”

“Hm. Do you want to do it for real? After school, mean,” Timmy asks, squinting up at Armie.

Armie thinks for a second. He’s not really sure exactly what he wants, but he never visioned himself as a professional football player.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Nah. You’re too smart,” Timmy says, a cheeky smile on his face. 

“Shut up,” Armie laughs, poking Timmy in the ribs.

“Don’t!” Timmy shrieks, jolting fully awake.

“Alright, alright,” Armie says, relenting quickly.

Rolling onto his back, Timmy ends up being close enough to Armie so that his side and Armie’s front is pressed together. For a second, Armie feels a jolt shoot through his chest by the thought that maybe Timmy purposely did it to get closer to him. That maybe Timmy felt that need to be close too.

Then, Armie remembers all the times Timmy has been sitting halfway on top of Nick. All the times he’s been hanging off of Tyler’s shoulder, and that one time where he had placed an exaggerated kiss on Henry’s cheek as a joke. The hope is quickly replaced by a weird sort of twisting disappointment. Of course, Timmy isn’t craving Armie’s touch. Timmy probably isn’t even aware how close they are.

“But seriously. What do you want to do after high school?” Timmy asks, raising his hand towards the ceiling, looking at his fingers. This _thing_ has become one those Timmy things that Armie just can’t help but want to hide away in a safe treasure box for dreary days.

“My parents want me to get an MBA,” Armie answers, looking at Timmy’s hand too. He knows he didn’t really answer the question. But it’s the only one he has, because Timmy might actually be the first one to ask him this question. His parents certainly never did. And he supposes that it wouldn’t be bad. He would have a proper education, job security, the prospect of a nice salary and all that. And if he got into Stanford, or Harvard, maybe his parents would find a reason to be proud of him. Maybe. Not that Armie has much hope that their relation will be restored, not after this.

“Do you want an MBA?” Timmy asks, moving the hand down, placing it on Armie’s hip as he turns towards him on the bed. Armie’s breath hitches. _So close._

Trying to focus on Timmy’s question, Armie looks down.

“I’ve never really thought about it. I- I don’t like math,” Armie says, shrugging. As if that answers anything. In a way, he supposes it’s answer enough.

When a small laugh bubbles out of Timmy, Armie looks up in surprise. There’s no trace of judgement or flippancy on his face though, and when Timmy speaks again, Armie feels like he means the words.

“You’re brilliant, Armie. Don’t kill it for the sake of other people.” Then Timmy turns around, presses his back up against Armie’s front, and by now it’s pure reflex when Armie wraps his arm around Timmy’s middle.

It feels as if everything inside of him has turned to warm fuzzy bubbles, threatening to spill over. And right now, Armie doesn’t care if it does. So, what if Timmy is like this with everyone? Armie will take what he can get. Will hold him when he’s allowed and live on it for days. Because this is his right now, no one can say that Timmy didn’t choose Armie right this moment, no one can say that it didn’t happen. Armie takes it, sprinkles glitter all over it and places it on the highest shelve inside his mind. He’ll build an altar of Timmy-moments and treasure them for the rest of his life, and it’ll be enough. Just like Timmy is enough.

“Do you really want to be an actor?” Armie asks, thinking about Timmy on stage. Wonders if he’ll ever be lucky enough to witness it.

“Yeah. Did it sound like a joke?” Timmy asks, turning his face towards Armie.

“No, of course not,” Armie answers, instinctively tightening his arm. _Please don’t be mad. I’m just not good at asking the right questions the right way._

“Well, yes, I want to be an actor, then. For real,” Timmy says, settling back down.

“But aren’t you afraid that—that--” _for Christ sake. Now you sound like you don’t believe in him._

“The way I see it, I can either tell myself that it’ll never be more than a dream and try to forget about it. That way, I’m sure that it’ll never happen. Or I can try, give it all I’ve got, and see where it takes me. At lease I’ll have tried. At least, I’ll have stayed true to myself,” Timmy says, sounding steadfast, defiant. It only makes Armie admire him even more. _And I don’t even have the guts to ask myself what I really want to do._

“When I was a kid--” Armie says, not really knowing why he’s about to tell Timmy this. Figures it might make him seem a little self-indulgent, if not downright boring, to tell Timmy about his childhood. Timmy wasn’t there, Timmy probably couldn’t care less. But—well.

“-I uh, there was this theater play in my class. We were supposed to write the play ourselves, with help from a teacher of course, and then the school invited all the parents to come see. It probably sounds silly, but I wrote most of it, you know. Everyone loved it. Not that I did it all on my own or anything, but--” Armie trails off. _Man, what do you even expect him to say to this? Congrats, you peaked in pre-school?_

Turning around, Timmy looks up at Armie’s face, eyes big with curiosity.

“Really? That’s amazing, Armie.”

“Well--” Armie trails off again. Shrugs. _This is stupid._

“They didn’t come and see you, did they?” Timmy asks, his voice quiet, tentative.

Armie snorts. Shakes his head and snaps out of it.

“No. But it’s fine, it was just a kids-play, it hardly made much of a difference to the world.”

“It sounds like it made a pretty big difference to your world,” Timmy points out.

Looking anywhere but at Timmy, Armie scratches the corner of his mouth. _How the hell is he able to find all my sore spots this easily?_

“You know what, you should join us next time we meet up. In the drama club, I mean. They’re always happy to see new faces, it’ll be fun,” Timmy says, his smile doing its best at convincing Armie.

“Drama club? No, Timmy, I can’t—I’ve got practice, and I don’t know anything about drama, and-”

“You don’t have practice Friday afternoon. And it’s not about who knows most about Beckett or great tragedies, it’s about finding purpose in a like-minded community. It’s, it’s about letting your creativity evolve, really. And before you say anything, yes, you’ve got creativity. We’ve all got it, and I definitely think that you do too,” Timmy says, pushing up into a seated position, eagerness shining all over his face.

“I don’t know, Timmy, it’s--”

“Please. For me? Just once, and I promise, if you hate it, I won’t mention it again. Please?” _Who the hell am I to deny this kid anything? My spine turns into an earthworm every time Timmy looks at me like this._

Squinting his eyes, Armie sighs heavily. “ _Fine._ Just this once.”

“Haha! You’re the best!” Timmy bursts, slapping Armie’s chest in pure glee, and shit, Armie feels proud. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but to be the reason for Timmy to smile like this, it’s, it’s—it’s _everything_.

Rolling his eyes in mock displeasure, Armie tries his best to keep the blush rising on his cheeks at bay. In a moment of pure happiness, he pushes up from the bed and tackles Timmy who squeals in surprise, making them fall back down on the bed. This time, it’s Timmy’s fingers that seeks out Armie’s ticklish spots, and when he finds them Armie feels nothing but joyful panic and exhilaration.

* * *

On Wednesday, Armie goes for a smoke with Nick between classes. Timmy had been whisked away by Saoirse, and Armie had welcomed the opportunity to test out if the constant fog would leave his brain if Timmy wasn’t in immediate proximity. Turns out, it did help a little. Now all he feels is a weird sort of absence.

“So, you and Timmy?” Nick asks, giving Armie a look that Armie thinks means, _how are you? Are you alright, living with him? Do you need me?_ But really, it sounds more like _have you fucked yet?_

Armie shrugs. “Timmy and I what?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one who moved in with the guy.”

“Not like I had much of a choice.”

“Man don’t give me that. You had lots of choices. Me, for example,” Nick chuckles.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that—”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just—shit, Armie I’m not holding a grudge here, I hope you know that. I just figured that, you know—you had your reasons or something? That maybe Timmy did too?”

“Reasons for what?” Armie asks, feeling confused. He moved in with Timmy because he needed a place to crash, and Timmy offered -no, insisted- and yeah, maybe he doesn’t exactly mind that Timmy is his new roomie, but still. Nick sounds as if he knows more than Armie. _Well. Business as usual._

Nick huffs in amusement. “Are you seriously going to act like you’re not completely gone for him?”

“Gone?” Armie feels like a broken record.

“In love, Armie,” Nick deadpans. The words make Armie’s heart stop. It’s not that the concept is completely unknown to him, and it’s not like he hasn’t had the vague feeling that what he feels for Timmy might be bigger than what lays within the limits of a platonic friendship. But—but _love._ As in, _I love him. I love Timmy. I love you, Timmy._ No. That’s just—no. Feeling like he might choke on something that feels larger than life, Armie takes a drag from his cigarette.

“In—I’m not in love with him,” Armie croaks. The words still taste dangerous, even with a negation thrown in the middle. Nick just hums.

“We’re friends. Just friends,” Armie says, repeating his and Timmy’s words from Sunday. _Friends. It’s enough. Just having Timmy as a friend, is enough. It’ll have to be._

“You’re very cute just friends, then,” Nick says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“What do you mean? I’m not cute,” Armie says, already preparing to defend his masculinity. Why he feels such a strong need to that, he doesn’t know.

“He’s been wearing your hoodie the whole day, and you’ve basically become inseparable the last couple of days.”

_Timmy is wearing my hoodie? How the fuck haven’t I noticed?_ Suddenly, Armie feels as if finding Timmy is the most important thing in the whole world. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t get to know what Timmy looks like—small, delicate, beautiful, Timmy -who Armie definitely isn’t in love with- in Armie’s hoodie that’ll no doubt be way too big for Timmy.

“Well, as I said, we’re friends. You’ve borrowed my shit too,” Armie points out, hoping that’ll be enough to convince Nick. Not there’s much to convince Nick about - it’s true, he and Timmy really are just friends.

Nick hums. Sucks on his cigarette, and Armie is almost certain that the topic has been dropped. Thank God.

“What about you?” Armie asks, feeling like he needs to make sure that the focus won’t stay on him.

“Me?” Nick asks glancing at Armie.

“Yeah, you. You’ve been moping the whole day,” Armie says.

“It’s nothing, really,” Nick says, shrugging.

“Is it a girl? Or… you know. A boy?” Armie asks, feeling a little uncertain.

“It’s Henry.”

“Oh. Uh—did he do something?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—I think I might like him?” Nick says, and Armie thinks it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Well, I guess that makes sense, if you’re, you know—kissing and stuff,” Armie says, swallowing. He doesn’t dare think about how Nick and Henry might look together.

“Yeah, but you know, like as in _like-like,_ ” Nick deadpans.

“Oh. Does he like you too?” Armie feels like a blushing virgin, and he hates it. Hates it, because this shouldn’t be different. It shouldn’t make a difference that Henry is a boy, it shouldn’t. But somehow, it does make a difference, because Armie isn’t sure which rules apply here—how to have this conversation with Nick. And, if Henry had been a girl then Armie would’ve known what to say. So, it’s kind of frustrating, really, that just because Nick is crushing on a boy, Armie can’t be the best friend that he deserves. Because apparently, Armie is a hypocrite who himself longs for another boy but can’t support his friend fully who is in the exact same situation.

“That’s the thing,” Nick says, sulking as he looks at the ground. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like there might be something more. Like, the other day after practice, he drove me home, and then he kissed me in the car and held my hand, and like, we’ve never done that before. Not while we’ve been sober.”

Armie doesn’t know how it works when there’s two men instead of a man and a woman. But he does know that you don’t just drive people home and hold their hand and kiss them goodbye without feeling _something._

“You should ask him out,” Armie says. And isn’t it easy? Telling Nick to do something that he would never have the guts to do himself.

“You think so?” Nick asks, a small smile on his face that Armie is sure would be bigger if it weren’t for Nick’s cautiousness.

“Yeah. He would be an idiot not to hold on to a guy like you,” Armie answers, trying to muster up all of his nerve in order to just this once, be there for Nick.

Blushing, Nick kills his cigarette. Bumps his fist on Armie’s shoulder and says, “thanks man,” before they head to the last class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️


	13. Promise me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Say hi to Archie,” Timmy says, leaning closer to Armie, showing him the pup as if Armie haven’t seen it before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in between running errands and trying to keep the whole Christmas mood going in spite of you know- circumstances. And yeah, I could've posted it later, but what's the fun in that? Half the fun of this is sharing it with you guys, so I'm sorry if the spelling is shit (and if anything else in there is shit) but I just couldn't keep it to myself.

On Thursday, Armie brings Timmy to work. At first, he’d been apprehensive. The rescue center is his happy place, and even though he brings Nick all the time, he doesn’t want his boss to think that he’s just fooling around. But then Timmy had put on that small, jutting pout that had started a tight twinge of guilt in Armie’s gut. It had made him ask Timmy if he didn’t have better stuff to do, and Timmy had looked down at his feet, shoulders slumping. “I just wanted to see the puppies, but I guess I’ll just… go home or something,” and Armie knew that he was being played. Knew that Timmy was putting on a show, guilt tripping Armie on purpose. But did he care? Not really. The pouting had done its job.

“Jesus Christ,” Armie had said, rolling his eyes and throwing his arms out at the sides. Walking towards his car, he’d stopped a few meters away from Timmy and looked back at him. He was still standing behind, bouncing lightly on his feet, an anticipating smile on his face. He wiped it off as soon as Armie turned around.

“What are you still standing there for, princess?”

Grinning full force, Timmy had bounded towards the car, throwing his backpack in first, then his own body. The painful twinge of pain in Armie’s gut had morphed into a smooth feeling of gratification.

“And I’m not your princess,” Timmy had said offhandedly, flicking Armie on the thigh when they drove off. Armie had looked at him in bewilderment, until he’d remembered the pet name he’d just come up with.

“Then whose princess, are you?”

Timmy had shrugged. “I’m just not a princess, is all I’m saying.”

_And you’re not mine either,_ Armie filled in. Mostly for the sake of his own sanity.

* * *

They’ve only just made it inside the staff entry when Timmy starts bouncing on his feet again.

“Where do you keep them?” he asked, his face one of a suspenseful child on Christmas morning.

“Who?” Armie asks, meticulously putting his jacket and backpack away. He’s fully aware who Timmy’s talking about, but the feeling of having the upper hand is just too great. If Timmy is allowed to push Armie’s buttons, then Armie is allowed to push his too.

“The puppies,” Timmy deadpans.

“Huh? Puppies?” Armie asks, painting on mock confusion on his face.

“Are you serious?” Timmy asks, his face falling for just a split second. Then, when Armie starts snickering, Timmy slaps him in the middle of his chest.

“That’s not funny! You promised!” Timmy exclaims, his face serious.

“Jeeze, I won’t show you if you hit me,” Armie says, slapping Timmy back.

Then, a whole new expression takes over Timmy’s face. It looks like pure regret. Taking a step forward, he reaches out his hands, almost touching Armie’s chest, but stopping just before they do. All Armie feels is the phantom sensation of delicate hands on top of his expanding chest.

“Armie, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry--” Timmy says, his voice carefully apprehensive. As if he’s afraid to scare off a wild animal.

Armie holds his breath. Doesn’t know how to tell Timmy that yes, he feels on edge, yes, it’s because of Timmy, and no, it’s not because he slapped him as a joke. It’s because of his voice.

His deep voice that launches a wave of primal reflexes from Armie’s core. A muddy wave of wanting to cry, wanting to beg, because listening to Timmy’s voice is like sweet redemption, it’s the sound of pure sanctity and dark desire at the same time. It makes Armie _want_ so violently he almost falls to his knees each time he’s the main recipient. And he doesn’t know what he wants to beg for exactly, but if he could just touch- touch Timmy’s smile, the glint in his eyes when he’s truly happy. And Armie knows that you can’t touch the glint in someone’s eyes, and maybe that’s what makes this so frustrating. Because the thing that makes Timmy so much more beautiful than anyone else, is all of this energy streaming out of him. It’s magical and addicting, it’s light and intoxicating. It makes you feel safe and secure, and before you know it, it has pulled you under and you’re at his mercy. And Timmy has no idea that he holds this power, that he can make people like Armie sink to their knees in desperate prayer just by saying their name. Has no idea how lethal he is, so he doesn’t know to be careful. Doesn’t know to step lightly when it comes to Armie’s heart, to his sanity. His beauty is so frustratingly impalpable and excessive, it makes Armie want to scream. How will he ever get enough? He’s almost scared that if he ever got to have Timmy the way he wants -even though admittedly, he doesn’t what way that is- he would still never be able to get enough.

Suddenly, Armie has the fleeing thought that he would have to consume Timmy whole. Physically eat him up and swallow him down. But that wouldn’t be satisfactory either, because Armie needs to be able to look at Timmy. Feels like his eyes would never find true satisfaction in this world again if he couldn’t rest them on Timmy. It’s disturbing and grotesque.

Like, come on. He just smiled and said his name, and it immediately makes Armie think about life and death and everything in between.

“Come on,” Armie says, shaking his head, trying to get all of the sudden dystopic thoughts out of his head. “I’ll show you the puppies.”

When they reach the area with the puppies, Timmy is practically vibrating. Armie wants to kiss the corner of his mouth. Wants to tell him to, _“pick one baby. Anyone you’d like and its yours.”_

Opening the door to the floor-to-ceiling cage, Armie immediately crouches down as five eager puppies starts yapping and jumping around. The second he buries his fingers in soft fur, the tension in his shoulders and border-line obsessive thoughts ease out of his mind.

“Can I--” Timmy says, still standing in the opening of the cage. Suddenly, he looks apprehensive. As if he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to pet the small furry animals. Armie is surprised he hasn’t stuffed them all down his backpack and bolted yet.

“Yeah, come here,” Armie says, picking up a small golden retriever.

Sitting down next to Armie, Timmy looks at the small golden retriever, currently enjoying Armie’s scratches behind her ear. “You want to hold her?” Armie asks, already handing her over.

Nodding eagerly, Timmy holds out his arms. Armie almost wants to melt right then and there when he looks at the way Timmy nuzzles his nose into the light fur of the pup, cooing at her.

If he can get Timmy like this, all to himself, he’ll bring him every time from now on.

Scanning the room, Armie spots the newest addition to the pup department in the corner of the cage. Scooting across the floor, he carefully picks up the small welsh terrier.

“Oh, come here, you. Yes, hello,” Armie murmurs, cradling the puppy to his chest. It’s been here for a week, and while he doesn’t seem skittish or scared, he does seem a bit shy. On his guard, maybe. He’s Armie’s favorite already.

“Who’s this?” Timmy asks, scooting over next to Armie, arms still full of golden retriever. 

“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Armie says, slowly brushing his fingers through the short wiry fur.

“He’s so cute though,” Timmy says, reaching out a tentative hand. As if he already knows to be careful with this one. _Like he knows with me._

Taking in the way Timmy carefully caresses the puppy in Armie’s arms, Armie feels his heart swell. When Timmy’s fingers momentarily brush against Armie’s the swelling turns into soaring.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Armie purposely reaches out with the tips of his fingers when Timmy’s passes by again. He succeeds in his plans when Timmy’s hand goes still. When he just leaves it there, halfway on top of Armie’s. It feels electrifying, as if the whole room is buzzing with a static sort of energy that makes everything stand still. Everything but Armie’s heartbeat and the flickering of thoughts passing through Timmy’s head and as a result, his eyes and face when Armie looks up.

Because when he looks at Timmy, really looks him in the eye, Armie is sure that he isn’t the only one feeling the current sloshing around them. Is sure, because Timmy has pressed his thighs and knees tightly against Armie’s and Armie almost feels like they’re one being. Almost, because he needs more.

He needs to breathe the same air as Timmy, taste Timmy, and when Timmy looks down at Armie’s lips, Armie is sure that at least, their thoughts are the same. Is sure, when Timmy leans in, and when he feels himself start to meet Timmy in the middle, Armie suddenly has the ability to think painfully clear. He wants this. He’s ready, never been more ready for anything. All of his fears, all of his reluctance is being washed away by the clarity Timmy has brought him.

Just as Timmy licks his lips and Armie is about to let his eyes fall shut and _just_ _do it,_ the welsh terrier in his arms starts moving around. Sniffling his muzzle towards Timmy’s hand, the puppy makes a small, unsteady jump into Timmy’s arms.

“Oh!” Timmy exclaims, gazing at the puppy as if it’s everything Timmy could want from the world. Armie almost feels jealous. Jealous, because he had just been about to _kiss Timmy._ And most importantly, Timmy had been about to kiss him back. _Holy fuckety fuck shit._

When the puppy starts licking at Timmy’s face, Timmy lets out a small giggle. And oh, how Armie wants to be the reason for Timmy’s giggles. How he wants to lick Timmy’s smile too.

“You need a name, don’t you buddy?” Timmy says, cradling the puppy.

“You can--” Armie clears his throat, “—you can give him one. If you want.”

The look in Timmy’s eyes is almost as satisfying as actually getting to kiss him. At least, Armie thinks so.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Armie says, scratching the back of his neck. Timmy’s thigh is still pressed to his. The point of contact feels burning hot.

“Did you hear that? Armie said I can find you a name. What should we call you, huh? Little one,” Timmy says, scratching the eager dog behind its ears.

“What did you say?” Timmy coos, bringing his face closer to the dog.

“Archie? Are you an Archie? You really are, aren’t you?

Armie can already feel his face splitting into a beaming smile. The name bears a striking resemblance to his own, and yet it’s unique in its own way.

“Say hi to Archie,” Timmy says, leaning closer to Armie, showing him the pup as if Armie haven’t seen it before.

“Hi Archie,” Armie says, brushing Archies fur.

“Thank you,” Timmy says, looking up at Armie. And just as Armie is about to shrug, say “it’s no big deal” and brush the whole thing off, Timmy goes and threatens Armie’s heart to stop yet again.

Quickly, as if a flash of courage just passed through him, Timmy leans up and kisses Armie on the cheek. Stands up with Archie still in his arms and walks over to the rest of the playing puppies. Leaving Armie behind, dumbstruck and blushing, his hand trembling when he reaches up to touch the place on his cheek that Timmy’s lips was just pressed against.

* * *

Armie keeps his promise and joins Timmy and the drama club Friday night. He had imagined that Timmy had wanted him to join an actual class, and to be honest, it had made him nervous.

Because Armie might not think of himself as obtuse or stupid, but he’s well aware of his role in this system. Is aware of the price he pays for being the football captain. That you can’t just be good at sports, good-looking and popular _and_ be an intellectual at the same time. And while most of the football team probably views the drama club as a bunch of hippie nerds, Armie doesn’t.

Sometimes, he wishes that he could be one of them. That he could blend in a little more, that he could live in a world of words and unison. That he could surround himself with people who’d appreciate him for other than his physics and socially appreciated appearance.

He knows that his expectations about these people are purely based on outside-knowledge, that he’s most likely stereotyping them just as much as he fears they are stereotyping him. And maybe that’s what his worries are truly based on. That they’ve already put him in a box that he can’t get out of. That they’ll brush him aside immediately. That they won’t give him a chance at being better. No, not better. But being himself.

Because what if he’s been at the wrong place his whole life? What if he belongs somewhere else and that place has already discharged him based on his earlier actions, his current place in society. No matter how unwillingly, how unknowingly he was placed there to begin with.

When everything comes down to basics, he’s afraid of being judged and shun before he even gets a chance. And who says he wants that chance anyway? He just thinks he does. And Timmy wants him to come, so.

So, he drives them to a house he’s never seen before. And he feels a little nervous, wants to ask Timmy if he’s sure this is so important to him. Has even debated letting Timmy step out the car first and then just drive off. He’d come back later to pick Timmy up, of course. But every time he’s thought about that solution, he either imagines Timmy’s disappointed face as he abandons him or Timmy’s temper going amok as soon as Armie comes back. He’d for sure prefer taking Timmy’s pissed off mood over his disappointed expression, but in reality, he’ll probably always end up doing whatever it takes to make him happy.

And this gathering had seemed important to Timmy, so when they pull up on the quiet road in front of the house, Armie kills the engine. Looks at the house through the windshield and clutches the keys in his hand.

What if he makes the mood completely awkward? What if Timmy didn’t tell them that Armie would join them? What if they don’t want Armie to stay? What if… what if Timmy forgets about him and just disappears? _No, he wouldn’t do that._

But then again—Timmy seems like the type of guy who knows everyone, who’s attention is demanded by everyone. Armie understands why, he’s not much better off himself.

Just right now, he feels desperate to find some assurance that Timmy won’t leave him tonight.

Getting out of the car, Timmy shoots Armie a smile. “It’s going to be fun. Come on.”

Following Timmy to the door, Armie slows his steps to stay behind him. When they reach the front door, Armie doesn’t know where to put his hands. He ends up stuffing them down the front pockets of his jeans, immediately regretting that stance when he starts wondering if it makes him look disinterested. Indifferent. He defiantly doesn’t want to give off the whole I’m-better-than-all-of-you vibe.

Carelessly knocking on the door three times in a row, Timmy just grabs the doorhandle and opens the door. Calls out a “hello?” and motions for Armie to follow.

“Timmy!” a guy comes in into view, a big smile already on his face at the prospect of seeing Timmy. Armie can relate to that.

“Matty, hey.” Stepping up to the guy, Timmy envelopes him in a one-armed hug, the other hand clutching a bottle of wine. “This is Armie,” He says, gesturing at Armie who still stands back, holding his breath in tight anticipation.

This _Matty_ looks a disturbing lot like Timmy. Armie almost wonders if they’re twins separated at birth, but then he looks closer. They might be equally tall, equally dark haired and slim, but their faces aren’t the same. Matty’s eyes are droopy in a different way to Timmy’s, and they’re not deep green. His hair looks like it hasn’t been anywhere near a brush in ages, and his mouth sits different than Timmy’s.

“Armie, man! Good to see you, it’s really cool you wanted to join us,” Matty says, serving Armie the same smile as he’d just given Timmy. Even his speech is drawling in a whole other way than he’s ever heard Timmy’s being. Not that it’s ever really fair on anyone to be compared to Timmy.

Then, Armie is being pulled down in a hug, Matty’s hand gripping the back of his shirt instead of the usual clap he’s used to.

“Uh thanks—thanks for letting me come,” Armie croaks, clearing his throat. His mouth feels dry.

“Of course, dude, any friend of Timmy’s is a friend of ours,” Matty says, already on his way back down the hallway. “We’re in the living room,” he says, and then he rounds a corner, disappearing.

“Told you it’d be fine,” Timmy grins, shucking off his shoes.

Turns out, Timmy isn’t the only one at this gathering who Armie knows. When they enter the living room, Armie awkwardly sticking to standing halfway behind Timmy, Saoirse is sitting on the floor.

They’re all sitting on the floor in an uneven circle, Armie notices. And alright, that defiantly agrees with his expectations. Prejudices, really. And while the few encounters Armie has had with Saoirse might have been awkward, a little weird at best, Armie feels beyond relieved. That relief starts blooming, when she looks up at Armie and Timmy, immediately scooting over, motioning for them to come over. “Timmy, Armie! Come on, sit,” she demands.

Waiting for Timmy to move first, Armie scratches the back of his neck. Then, he follows.

As Timmy is about to sit nearest Saoirse, the girl waves him away, says, “no, Armie you sit here,” and Armie feels a weird sensation spread in his chest. _Who would ever prefer my company over Timmy’s?_

When he’s seated between Timmy and Saoirse, legs folded crisscross in front of him, Armie looks around the circle of people. Everyone is chatting, some of them reach over, offering their hand to Armie. Everyone seems to know who he is, to have expected him. None of them looks at him as if they don’t want him here.

“Armie, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you,” Saoirse says, throwing an arm around his shoulders, hand gripping his bicep.

“Yeah, I uh- I guess,” Armie stammers, feeling himself blush.

“What have you been up to?” she asks, taking a glass that someone just handed her, then proceeding to pour wine into it.

“I uhm, I’ve--” _Told Timmy that my father beats me. Used to. Whatever. Moved in with Timmy to avoid future beatings. Developed a severe crush on him in the meantime. Shit, I can’t tell her that._

“Oh my god Sersh, Armie took me to see the puppies at his work yesterday, and there was this little one, and no, wait, I’ll show you--” Timmy cuts in, pulling his phone out of his jean pocket. “Look, isn’t he the cutest? His name is Archie, I named him myself and everything,” Timmy says, the same eagerness from yesterday back on his face.

“Aw man, he’s adorable!” Saoirse coos, bringing the small screen closer to her face. “Do you get to bring him home?” 

Face falling into a pout, Timmy puts the phone away. “No, I don’t think we can. But I’m going to visit him, right Armie?” Timmy says hand clutching Armie’s bicep. Armie wonders how conscious that move was.

“Right,” Armie says, feeling pride swell in his chest. This way, he holds the key to at least some of Timmy’s happiness. Does that make him a bad person? Bribing Timmy with puppy time, just to get a fix? Well, in case it does, Armie can’t be bothered to worry. He’s got way bigger problems to deal with.

“Where do you work?” Saoirse asks, handing Armie the glass of wine.

Clutching the offered glass, Armie answers, “the pet adoption center, it’s uh, on Pontius Ave.”

“That’s such a cool job, you must really love it,” she answers, leaning back on a hand.

“Oh, it’s not really a real job, I just volunteer, but yeah, it’s--”

“You’re volunteering? Timmy why didn’t you tell me?”

Looking at Timmy who’s got a blush creeping up his cheeks, Armie feels like he missed something.

“Does it matter?” Timmy murmurs, taking a gulp of his own wine. Saoirse looks thoughtful, taps a finger on her glass. Then, she shakes her head and looks back at Armie.

“Anyway—so, Armie, you’re interested in drama?”

Coughing, Armie clears his throat, says, “I don’t know, it’s uhm—Timmy wanted me to come, and like, I don’t know, it seems cool, but--”

“He’s convinced that he isn’t welcome here,” Timmy says, folding his arm around Armie. The hand on his waist squeezes, and then Timmy just leaves it there. Armie is sure that it’s supposed to be reassuring in a platonic way, but it feels oddly possessive. Protective, maybe.

“What? That’s crazy. We’d be happy to have you, really. You ever done theater before?”

“Not really,” Armie says, blushing. Timmy’s hand is still resting on his hip, a thumb brushing back and forth carefully.

Leaning his head on Armie’s shoulder, Timmy mumbles into his ear, “I told you not to worry.” It sends a thrill down Armie’s spine, and he wants to lean into Timmy, he really does, but they’re in public, at least, Armie feels like they are. And these people go to the same school as him, and no matter how open minded and cool they seem, Armie isn’t ready to risk this. Isn’t ready to act on the needs Timmy seems to evoke in him.

He doesn’t shrug Timmy off, but he stays where he is. Stiff and passive, even though it almost hurts how much he wants more from Timmy, how much he wants to _give_ to Timmy.

“You wanna give it a try?” Saoirse asks.

Armie swallows. Focuses on the feeling in his stomach when he tries to imagine himself as one of these people. Tries to imagine himself on a stage, reading lines, studying roles and immersing himself into all kinds of universes where he doesn’t need to be _Armie Hammer._ Where he doesn’t need to figure out who Armie Hammer is. He thinks it would be nice. More than nice.

“I mean—yeah. I guess I do,” he answers.

Immediately, he feels Timmy’s arm pull him closer.

“Then cheers to that!” Saoirse grins, and when Timmy clinks his glass to Armie’s and sends him a warm smile, Armie feels his shoulders relax. Feels himself let go for a second, when he smiles back at Timmy, leaning into his side. 

Armie realizes that he was totally wrong about being unwelcome. Everyone just accepts him as if he’s always been there, and when they ask him questions, they seem genuinely interested by what he’s got to say. Two hours later, and he feels completely relaxed and cozy. The fact that Timmy hasn’t left his side the whole time defiantly helps his mood too.

“Did you really mean the thing about trying drama? For real?” Timmy asks, his head in Armie’s lap.

“You think I could?” Armie asks, leaning back on his hands.

“Yeah. I mean, we should probably ask Mr. Guadagnino first, but he’s pretty cool, so. Yeah.”

“Then yeah, maybe.” The smile on Timmy’s face makes Armie want to agree on anything Timmy suggests.

“Tim, want to go for a smoke?” a guy asks. Armie remembers him as Josh.

Turning his head in Armie’s lap, Timmy looks at Josh.

“Nah man, I’m good,” he says, staying where he is.

Turning his face towards Armie’s abdomen, Timmy closes his eyes and nuzzles into him. Looking around the living room, Armie notices that it’s almost empty. Only Dree and Greta remains back, sitting in a corner talking animatedly.

“You’re so warm,” Timmy mumbles, letting go of a deep sigh.

Feeling curiosity and wonder fill his chest, Armie reaches out a hand and lets the tip of his index finger run down slowly from the top of Timmy’s forehead, between his eyebrows. Down the bridge of his knows until he reaches the place beneath the tip of Timmy’s nose, just above his upper lip. He stops his finger for a second. Contemplates whether to run his finger across Timmy’s lips or not.

When Timmy’s eyes flutter open and dark, green pools stares back at him, Armie lets his finger follow the curve of Timmy’s upper lip, down the side of his mouth, passing by the corner, until the finger runs beneath Timmy’s bottom lip.

From there, he lets it run down Timmy’s chin, across his throat, finger bumping against the ridges of his Adams apple, the cartilages of his trachea. All the while, he follows his finger with his eyes, feeling Timmy’s own burning in his face.

Swallowing dryly, Armie lets the tip of his finger continue. Spends some time on the place between Timmy’s collarbones before continuing down his sternum, further down where the space between his ribs expands and turns into the slightly softer flesh of Timmy’s stomach. When he reaches Timmy’s hands resting on his rising and falling abdomen, Armie stops. Looks back up at Timmy who’s still looking back at him.

When he feels Timmy’s fingers reach for his hand, Armie intertwines their fingers, letting them rest on Timmy’s stomach where he feels his steady pulse thrumming.

“Armie--” Timmy breathes. And Armie feels heavy and dazed, feels like a bubble has enveloped them both, shielding them from everything.

“Promise me I won’t lose you,” Armie says.

Admittedly, there’s a lot of things he could’ve said right now. _You’re so beautiful. Can I kiss you? Do you feel this too, or is it just me going insane?_ But then again, what he wound up saying was probably much more important anyway.

“You’ll never lose me,” Timmy says instantly, fingers squeezing Armie’s.

“Timmy, I—” and Armie almost says it. Almost spits out everything, from how beautiful Timmy is right now, to how Armie can’t stop thinking about him, how Armie will never leave Timmy either, because that would be the same as leaving his breath, his heartbeat.

“Timmy, do you have a minute?” A voice cuts Armie off, and he doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Looking up, Armie’s eyes land on a dark blonde girl with big brown eyes and defined features. Armie thinks this is the one Timmy introduced as Lilly.

“Uh, sure—,” Timmy starts, getting up into a seated position. Armie immediately feels cold where his head just rested. “I’ll be right back,” Timmy says, shooting Armie a soft smile, remnants of dark green still sprinkled in his eyes. Armie wants him to come back already.

Looking at the two of them disappearing out of the room, Armie sighs. Pulls his legs against his chest and hugs his arms around them. Maybe he should go for a smoke, maybe find Saoirse. Maybe he should try and talk some more with the other guys.

_But Timmy will be back in a minute._

Armie stays where he is.

When fifteen of those minutes have passed, Armie gets up. Tells himself that he’ll just look for Timmy, and if he doesn’t find him, he’ll go outside for a smoke himself. No big deal.

When he looks in the kitchen, Timmy isn’t there. When he checks the bathroom to see if it’s occupied, he wonders what he’ll do when he finds Timmy. Imagines finding him some place quiet. Imagines crowding him against a wall, cupping his cheek in his hand, telling Timmy that he just can’t wait any longer.

Then, he’ll let his hand slide down, and he’ll grip his chin carefully, tilting Timmy’s face up. Then, he’ll kiss him. Slowly, carefully, at first. When Timmy pulls him closer, he’ll kiss him deeper. Put his fingers into those luscious curls. Armie can already feel heady anticipation pool in his stomach.

He doesn’t get much further in his fantasy before he finds Timmy. He hears his voice before he sees him. No, he hears two voices.

“Like this?” it’s Timmy. His voice is quiet, as if he’s searching for the right answer.

“Yeah, like that, that’s good.” Another voice. A female voice. _So, he’s still with Lilly. Might wait with the kissing until she’s gone._

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please, just do it.”

Taking a breath, Armie rounds the corner, instantly regretting that he ever went looking for Timmy in the first place. Because yeah, he did find Timmy somewhere quiet, and evidently, there’s a reason for that. The same reason why Armie feels his smile drop, his heart stopping in his chest as a cold, clammy feeling of sick spreads throughout his body.

Standing there, is Timmy and Lilly. And Timmy’s hands are cupping Lilly’s face, just like Armie had wanted to do himself. They’re kissing. And to Armie, it seems as if they’re both pretty into it.

Heart in his throat, Armie backs up. Letting go of a shaky breath, he runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Timmy kissing Lilly. Timmy kissing someone else. Timmy kissing a girl. What is happening? Isn’t Timmy gay? Why is Timmy kissing someone else? I was supposed to kiss Timmy._

Feeling panicky and scared that he’ll be seen, Armie silently makes his way down the dark hallway, through the house and out on the porch where the rest of the group has gone to smoke cigarettes and drink wine. He’s greeted by Matty and Saoirse, their faces kind but blurry at the edges. Maybe it’s just Armie who’s blurry. It certainly doesn’t seem like the others know that the world has started spinning.

Sitting down on a lounger, Armie pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. Tries to be polite and interact with the people around him, although he’s unsure how convincing his occasional nod or hum is.

_Alright. Here’s the facts. Timmy never said that he was gay. Did he? I’m actually pretty sure he did. Maybe he’s bi. And most importantly, Timmy never promised me infinite faithfulness. Hell, we’re just friends. Timmy doesn’t even know that I feel this way. Probably doesn’t care. Because if he did care, he would’ve come back to me, he wouldn’t have kissed Lily._

Swallowing the bitter taste of hurt and jealousy, Armie lights one more cigarette.

_Fuck this. I’ll just have to get over him. I can do that. I will do that. He’s not that important._

When Timmy comes looking for him, Lily isn’t with him. Armie huffs. She’s probably in the bathroom, fixing her hair or something. When he looks closer at Timmy, Armie is absolutely positive that Timmy’s lips are puffier than before. That his hair is more disheveled than usually.

When Timmy sits down next to Armie, leaning his head on his shoulder, Armie tells himself that he can smell woman’s perfume. He’s probably just overreacting.

“Do you think you can drive home?” Timmy asks, hand seeking out Armie’s.

Pulling his hand away from Timmy’s searching one, Armie puffs out a cloud of smoke.

“Yeah,” he says. Right now, he wishes that he had downed a whole bottle of wine himself, instead of just the glass Saoirse gave him hours ago. But on the other hand, he’s glad that he’s able to drive home himself.

“Wanna go home?” Armie asks, glancing down at Timmy. He almost wishes that Timmy would just leave him alone, stop touching him all the time. It clearly doesn’t mean anything. At least not in the way Armie needs it to.

“Yes please,” Timmy says, looking up at Armie with tired eyes.

_Did they fuck? He looks so relaxed._

Armie stands up abruptly, not caring about the way Timmy stumbles, his face morphing into a frown.

Once in the car, Armie can’t get them home soon enough. Because Timmy kept reaching for him the whole way out of the house, tried to place his hand on Armie’s thigh once in the car, and it wasn’t until Armie jerked his leg to the side, effectively shaking the hand off, that Timmy got the hint. And no, Armie shouldn’t have looked at his face right then, because Timmy looked beyond confused. And maybe a little hurt, but Armie needs to remember that Timmy isn’t _hurt_ because of him, because that would entail him having some deeper running feelings for Armie. And Armie just got the bright and clear answer to that question, didn’t he?

“Is everything alright?” Timmy sounds small. Armie tells himself to get over it, stop seeing things that aren’t there.

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Did I do something?”

“I just told you, I’m tired.” Armie regrets the cold tone of his voice a little.

They don’t talk for the rest of the ride, and when they reach the hallway back home, they both stop in front of each of their bedroom doors.

“Goodnight,” Armie says curtly, opening his door without looking at Timmy.

“Armie--”

“What?” still not looking at Timmy.

“Can we—Can I-- _Shit._ Can you come to my room? Just for a minute.” Armie wants to, he really does. So, when Timmy’s voice sound timid and hesitant, Armie makes the mistake of turning around, looking at him. His eyebrows are pulled tightly together, and his eyes are muddy with doubt.

_Stop seeing things._

“Is it important right now? I’m completely smashed,” Armie lies.

Forcing the corners of his mouths up, Timmy looks down and shakes his head.

“No, never mind. Goodnight Armie.” And then he’s gone, door quietly clicked shut behind him.

Armie heaves in a deep breath. Then, he goes to bed too, spending hours debating with himself if he should get out of bed and go to Timmy’s room. Hours, where he thinks back to Timmy promising to never leave Armie.

Armie feels pretty abandoned right now.

* * *

Saturday night, Timmy isn’t home. Armie doesn’t know where he is, just that was already gone before Armie woke up. So, Armie had spent the day in his room, reading and forcing himself to stop spiraling into countless angst-holes.

Sometime after dinner -which had consisted of cereal for Armie’s concern-, he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. Holds his breath and prays that it’s Timmy. Because one; he doesn’t like thinking that Timmy is avoiding him, and two; he’s never been alone with Michelle before and the thought is terrifying.

The sounds of movement coming from the rest of the apartment don’t sound like Timmy, and when there’s a knock on Armie’s door, Armie sits up straight in his bed. Putting his book away, he clears his throat.

“Come in.”

“It’s me,” Michelle says, making her way into the room.

Armie moves to sit on edge of his bed, his shoulders tensing up.

_Where is Timmy?_

“I wanted to talk to you about the case,” Michelle says, pulling the desk chair out.

“Yeah, uhm. Sure.”

“First, I need to tell you that I’m not going to be the one representing you in court.”

“Why not? Is something wrong?”

_I knew it. She can’t help me. I’m on my own, and Timmy doesn’t want to talk to me anymore and—_

“Because you live with me, and that makes me biased in a way that isn’t justifiable to the court. Now don’t worry, I would never ask you to move out. So, I’ve put my colleague on your case. His name is Michael, and he’s one of the very best at what he does.”

Armie feels shaky. Just talking about court and trials and lawyers makes him feel like throwing up. _Who does this to their own parents?_

“Oh, how—how will I be in contact with him?” Armie asks, trying to summon all of his courage. He’ll need to take care of this himself. He can do it.

“I’ll give you his number, I already gave him yours. I hope that’s okay. And I’m still with you all the way through. I just can’t represent you, because it would make our case weaker,” Michelle says, taking in Armie’s nervous form. Reaching out a hand, she places it reassuringly on Armie’s shoulder. “Armie, you’re not alone.”

He nods. “Thank you. Really.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now, the evidence against you -father- is good, but you’ll need to answer some questions before a judge, in order to clarify what we’re charging with and to gather as much evidence as possible. Officially, you’ll be there with Michael, but I’ll be there too, in the back. Afterwards we’re filling the charge and the accused party will be presented with the opportunity to plead guilty. If he doesn’t plead guilty, there’s going to be a trial.” At this, Michelle’s expression turns even more serious, and Armie needs to take a deep breath.

_Can I even do this?_

“Are there any other witnesses we should summon?” Michelle asks, he voice careful.

Shaking his head, Armie tightens his grip on the bedsheets. “Who would that be?”

“I imagine your mother, for example. Unless she hurt you too?”

“She never did anything, not like that,” Armie says.

“Do you think she’s safe right now?”

Swallowing a lump of guilt, Armie shrugs. “I don’t think he’s ever touched her. But I don’t know for sure.”

“Alright. We’ll send someone out there, make sure,” Michelle says, standing up.

“Yeah. Uh—thank you.”

Michelle smiles. Pushes back in and heads for the door. Stops, looks at Armie and says, “you have any questions about anything, you come to me. Alright?” Then, she closes the door behind her and Armie is alone again.

_I wish Timmy was home. Home, and not kissing girls. Why isn’t he home yet?_

Pushing the bedsheets back, Armie strips down and crawls into bed. Turns off the lights and stares into darkness. He wants to fall asleep and get this day over with, he really does. But pictures of his dad in court keeps circling his mind over and over.

Every time he tries to think about something else, he ends up thinking about Timmy. About all of the times he has been so sure that Timmy wanted to kiss him too. About Timmy kissing Lily. That exact thought makes him want to never think about Timmy again, which in turn makes him think about their promise about never leaving each other.

That makes him wish for Timmy to just come back home. To open Armie’s door, join him beneath the sheets. If Timmy needed something, anything, from Armie, then Armie would give it to him without question. If he just wanted companionship, that would be fine too. If he’d just come home.

Armie ends up staying awake for what feels like hours. It might’ve been mere minutes.

When he hears the unmistakable sound of Timmy’s footsteps down the hallway, Armie freezes. His muscles tense, his breathing quiet, he listens out. Waits, no, -prays- for Timmy to come into his room. But he doesn’t.

When Armie hears the sound of the door down the hallway fall shut, he angrily turns over, facing the wall. Closing his eyes, he curses himself. Curses himself because here he is, letting his sanity go to waste over someone who’s most likely been out screwing other people. Here he is, fighting his own brain for coming up with pictures of Timmy fucking Lily. Of Timmy whispering I love you’s into her ear before kissing her, just the way Armie has already seen himself.

_Get over it. Stop wasting your time obsessing over someone who doesn’t even spare you a thought for a whole day. You’ve got more important stuff to think about._

* * *

The next morning, Armie doesn’t want to get out of bed. Scooting further down beneath the covers, he closes his eyes and tries to think about nice things, manifesting as hard as possible in order for his imagination to turn into comfortable dreams. All of them revolves around crossing to the other side of the world with Timmy. To a new place where no one knows him, where his parents don’t exist. To a place where Timmy has eyes for no one but Armie.

He almost succeeds, right when the door to his bedroom slams open. Opening his eyes in surprise, Armie sits halfway up, looking at Timmy. Timmy, who’s wearing boxers and an oversized sweater, bedhead all over the place. Armie’s heart stutters before it starts racing.

Throwing himself down on Armie’s bed, Timmy pulls at the corner of his sheets, eyes still droopy.

“Timmy,” Armie croaks, surprise evident in his voice.

Grunting, Timmy pushes up against Armie, his naked thighs pressed against Armie’s own.

Staying perfectly still, Armie holds his breath.

“Whatever I did, please stop being mad at me,” Timmy mumbles, not looking at Armie.

“I’m not--”

“You were,” Timmy cuts him off, looking Armie in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Armie offers, not knowing what to say.

He knows he’s supposed to be indifferent, knows he’s not supposed to let Timmy crawl into his bed, effectively throwing all of Armies reasoning out the window. But what is he supposed to do?

“Me too,” Timmy says, burrowing his face into Armie’s neck. Feeling helpless, Armie folds his arms around Timmy, closing his eyes and breathing in a deep breath again for the first time since Timmy barged into the room. He doesn’t ask Timmy where he’s been. Partly because he doesn’t want to know, partly because the feeling of having Timmy in his arms is all consuming.

And it’s when Timmy sighs and goes completely lax, his breath hitting Armie’s neck, that Armie realizes. Realizes why he can’t turn his back to Timmy, why he can’t say _fuck him_ and get over it. It hits him right smack-dab in the face, almost knocking the breath out of his lungs.

_I love him._

And he can’t do anything about it, because it’s too late. It has taken root in his whole body, curling its branches around his heart, his veins, and it makes perfect sense, because every time Timmy is near Armie, Armie feels it in his gut, in his core. Every time he’s not near, Armie feels half torn, half empty, never more than half anything. Of course.

_I’m in love with Timmy._

It’s terrible. Armie can never tell him. Can never have him, because Timmy doesn’t want him back.

Feeling doomed and thrilled at the same time, Armie can’t stop repeating the words to himself.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

They stay in Armie’s bed the rest of the morning. Timmy falling in and out of sleep, clinging to Armie the whole time. Armie staring obliviously at the ceiling when Timmy is awake, just to shift his gaze to sharp features when Timmy is asleep.

Pressing his lips to the top of Timmy’s hair when he hears deep, regular breathing, Armie squeezes his eyes shut tight when they start to burn with despair. 

_I love you so much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can they just, like, kiss already? 
> 
> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️ 
> 
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	14. Tell me to stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this alright?” Timmy asks, voice just above a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, it happened!   
> Disclaimer: I literally wrote this instead of sleeping. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: coercive control and nightmares resembling abuse.

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket, Armie looks down at the ground as he makes his way to the back of the old gymnasium. The weather is changing and even though it’s LA, the grey autumn day still makes Armie shiver when a gust of wind hits him from the side.

He just needs a smoke before the last class.

Rounding the corner, Armie has already pulled out a cigarette and put it to his mouth, when he feels the presence of another person in front of him. Feeling his pockets for his lighter, Armie comes to an abrupt stop, looking up in horror at his father. Armie immediately starts looking around, searching for the safety of other people. There’s no one.

"What are you doing here?” Armie asks, his voice surprisingly calm.

“I just wanted to talk to my son,” Michael answers, holding his hands up in front of himself.

“You can’t be here. I’ll—I’ll call the police,” Armie says, already reaching for his phone.

“The police? Armie, calm down. I’ll stay right over here, I promise. See?” Taking a couple of steps back, Michael keeps his distance. Armie is sure that his father most likely knows exactly how close he can get without getting in trouble.

“What do you want?” Armie repeats.

“Armie--” Michael sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t call me that.” Armie has no idea where this courage comes from. He’s never talked back at his father on purpose.

“Alright. Armand. I— what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I’m at school!”

“Come on. You know what I’m talking about. Why are you splitting up our family like this?” Michael sounds worn-down. Armie doesn’t believe any of it.

“I—I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Your mother is completely out of it. She misses you, can’t understand why her son won’t come back home to her.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that, Armie? Hm?”

“Because you-- because” _where did that courage go?_ “she’s never missed me.”

“That’s not true Armie. She prays for you, every day. She’s not sleeping or eating right. Don’t do this to your own mother.”

“Why would I trust what you’re saying?”

“Because--” looking down, Michael sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Because I miss you too, Armie. Come on, son. Just stop this, whatever it is you’re doing. Come back home with me, and we’ll work it out, whatever it is that has gotten into your head.”

“Gotten into my head?”

“Yes, Armie. You’re clearly seeing things, making stuff up. Do you even know how serious this is?”

“I’m not making anything up!”

“Yes, Armand. You are. It’s all in your head. Now come on, just come back home.”

“No.”

“Armand, listen to me!” Michael says sternly.

“You’re crazy! You’re lying!” Working himself into a frenzy, Armie is well aware that he’s raising his voice.

“I’m not. Listen to me--” suddenly, Michael strides towards Armie, arms reaching out. Armie feels like he’s choking on panic and anger.

“Don’t touch me! Stay away from me, don’t touch me!” Armie yells, backing up until he’s got his back pressed against the wall.

“Calm down, I’m not hurting you. Easy. Easy,” Michael says, and Armie doesn’t know what is happening, but suddenly, his father is hugging him. _Hugging._ The last time this happened, Armie is pretty sure that his bedsheets still had dinosaurs on them.

“Let go of me, please, please,” Armie cries, trying to back up without success.

“Armie, calm down,” Michael says, still holding on. It feels wrong. Not because of the fact that it’s literally illegal for his father to be this close, but because it’s fake. Armie is sure of it.

“Don’t you know I love you, son?” Armie stills. _Love me?_

“You don’t,” Armie croaks.

“I do. I love you, and I’m proud of you. My clever boy. I’ve always been so proud of how smart you are, how brilliant you are. Of course, I love you,” Michael says.

And just like that, Armie feels his resolve starting to melt away. Quitting his fight, Armie goes lax in his father’s arms.

_Proud of me? He’s proud of me. He loves me. He does, right?_

“Now, will you please come back home with me? We’ll put all of this mess behind us, it’ll be as if it never happened.”

Armie wants to. God, how he wants things to go away. Wants all the talk about trials and courtrooms to go away, to not be a part of his reality. Wants to believe that his mother misses him, that his father is proud and really does love him.

Pulling back a little, Armie looks at his father’s face.

“Do you promise?” Armie asks, still not feeling completely sure.

“I promise. Come home with me, hm?”

And It’s something about the tone he uses. It’s covered in persuasion but Armie can feel the cold, hard edge beneath. There’s something about the man’s eyes too. They don’t match his words, they’re hard, too intent on success. And when Armie doesn’t answer, the arms around his shoulders tighten.

_It’s a hoax. He’s lying. It’s a trap and I walked right into it, just like he wanted me to. He’s got me right where he wants me._

Taking in a deep breath, Armie tries for a soft smile. Will his body to stay relaxed in the claws of his predator.

“I—I’ll have to go back and get my stuff, take things back again,” Armie says.

“That’s my boy. Good boy.” The arms tighten again. Armie stomach clenches with fear.

“Tell mom I’ll be there as soon as I can, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her,” Michael says. Then, he takes a step back, letting go of Armie.

Armie tries not to fall forward in relief when his father backs up.

“I have to go to class now. But I’ll see you later,” Armie says, trying to smile reassuringly.

“Good,” Michael says, placing a firm hand on Armie’s shoulder, eyes boring into Armie’s soul. Then, he lets go and walks away. Armie holds his breath, looking after him until he’s disappeared out of sight.

Letting an explosion of a breath go, Armie doubles over, leaning his hands on his shaking knees as he tries to regain control over his breath.

_Fuck. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

* * *

Armie didn’t go back to class. For a second, he debated going to the principal’s office, tell her what happened. Then, he decides not to. Not matter how reassuring Mrs. Evans had been, he won’t trust people who’s got one whole arm down his father’s wallet.

So, he goes home. Home, to Michelle and Timmy. Home, to his new room, where he locks the door and blasts music in his headphones, trying to drown out the world.

_Timmy will be home soon. Then, he’ll see that I’m not alright, he’ll know that I skipped the last class. He’ll ask what has happened and I’m not going to tell him. He’ll freak out. If I have to tell anyone, it’s going to be Michelle, not Timmy._

So, Armie waits for Timmy to come home. Partly because he doesn’t want him to, partly because he desperately wants him to. Wants to cuddle the person he loves more than anyone, even though that person can never know. Wants to close his eyes and register nothing but Timmy, and then he’ll tell Timmy in his own head, how much he loves him. Like he’s been doing for the past couple of days. It’s enough for now.

He’s right about Timmy being home soon. Forty minutes later, there’s a knock on his door.

Getting up from the bed, Armie takes off his headphones and tosses them on his desk. Unlocks the door and goes back to bed, throwing himself on top of it, his back turned towards Timmy.

“Hey,” Timmy says, closing the door behind him.

Armie hums, eyes slipping shut.

“I couldn’t find you. Figured you couldn’t be bothered with math.” Feeling the bed dip behind him, Armie sighs deeply. Finally.

“Headache,” Armie says, a little proud of his lie. It’ll explain his closed eyes, his need for comfort.

“Want me to get you some painkillers?” Timmy asks, lazy fingers stroking through Armie’s hair.

_No, I just want you._

“No,” Armie answers, scooting backwards a little. Then, “thank you.”

Then, he feels the warm, solid weight of Timmy’s body disappearing behind him, cold disappointment taking his place.

“Where are you going?”

The room goes dark.

“Just wanted to give your head a rest,” Timmy says, getting back into bed, pulling Armie closer. And Armie’s head doesn’t hurt, but his heart does, and it seems as if darkness is soothing for both kind of aches. This way, Armie can focus even better on Timmy.

“Is it alright if I stay here for a while?” Timmy mumbles, fingers playing with the strings of Armie’s hoodie.

Armie feels his heart swell.

_He wants to stay with me._

“Of course,” he says.

They lay in silence for a while, their hands tangling together, just to untangle when Timmy’s hands get cold and Armie carefully lifts the bottom of his hoodie, placing Timmy’s hand on the small swell of his stomach. Holding his breath, he waits for Timmy to freak out. He doesn’t. Instead, he snakes his hand up further, slowly, until he reaches Armie’s chest, where he lets it rest.

“Is this alright?” Timmy asks, voice just above a whisper. Armie swallows. Then, he nods his head, hoping that Timmy can feel it. When Timmy presses up closer, his crotch pushed against Armie’s ass, Armie almost feels lightheaded. Then, Timmy’s fingers start brushing back and forth, mere millimeters from Armie’s left nipple. Swallowing again, Armie breathes through his nose as he feels his own cock hardening.

_Kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

Pushing closer again, Timmy presses his hand harder against Armie’s chest, making Armie turn halfway around towards Timmy.

None of them says anything. The room is completely quiet, only Timmy’s blurry silhouette visible to Armie. They’re so close.

“Tell me to stop,” Timmy whispers, his breath hitting Armie’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Armie answers instantly.

_Don’t ever stop._

And then—then, Timmy leans in. And Armie almost expects for the door to burst open, an earthquake to hit or simply for his heart to stop beating, because Timmy is _kissing_ him.

Kissing him with slow, tentative lips. It’s careful and curious. It’s soft and warm. Armie feels like he’s burning, melting and erupting at the same time. Letting his hand rest on Timmy’s hip, Armie presses closer, his nose brushing against Timmy’s cheek.

“Armie--” Timmy breathes, and Armie thinks it sounds as if Timmy is begging him for something, so he opens his lips a little, kissing Timmy deeper. Deeper, with the tip of his tongue grazing Timmy’s mouth.

_I need more, always more. I love you._

Letting his lips part, Timmy lets Armie’s tongue slip inside his mouth, meeting him halfway. Armie thinks Timmy tastes like apples and cigarettes, and it shouldn’t be this good, it shouldn’t but when stars start dancing before his closed eyes, Armie doesn’t give a flying shit. He’s wanted this for so long and it’s better than he ever imagined. Imagined—remembering what he had pictured himself doing if this should ever happen, Armie cups Timmy’s face in his hand. Tilt’s his face at a better angle and lets his mouth cover Timmy’s completely. When he feels hands at the back of his neck, he lets out a small groan and takes Timmy’s bottom lip between his teeth for a short second, before he lets go again and lets his tongue soothe the flesh. Whimpering, Timmy tightens his hands and opens his mouth, kissing Armie even harder.

Soon, the silence has turned into panting breathes, the sound of wet lips coming together and clothes sliding against clothes.

“More--” Timmy breathes, and Armie wants to give him everything, so he rolls them over until Timmy is fully on his back, Armie on top. Brushing curls out of the way, Armie frames Timmy’s face as their tongues slide together, the skin around his lips feeling damp. He doesn’t care. He wants Timmy’s saliva all over him, wants to kiss Timmy everywhere. Never wants to stop kissing Timmy.

_I love you so fucking much._

Then, the sound of the front door slamming shut reverberates throughout the apartment, the silence broken. Armie pulls back with a sharp intake of breath, rolling off of Timmy.

Suddenly, the world starts falling back down around him, crashing and burning.

Pictures of Timmy and Lily kissing zaps through his mind, the sound of his father’s voice telling him that Timmy doesn’t want him ringing in his ears.

“Armie?” Timmy asks, hand reaching out. Armie sits up and scoots out of bed. When he turns the lights back on, he instantly wants to turn them back off.

Sitting in the middle of his bed is Timmy, hair sticking out everywhere, lips puffy and eyes swimming with what Armie can only guess to be desire and confusion.

“We can’t,” Armie says, his heart in free fall.

“What?”

“You should--”

“Please don’t,” Timmy says, his eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry.” Armie needs to look down at his feet.

“Didn’t you want to—I thought—you didn’t tell me to stop.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Armie bites his lip. Timmy sounds even more hurt than Armie feels right now.

“I did. Want to. But it’s not fair to _her_. We can’t,” Armie says. Wishes that he could just stop caring about hurting Lily—that he could unsee the whole thing and live in happy oblivion.

“Her?” Now Timmy just sounds downright confused.

“Lily,” Armie croaks.

“Lily?”

“Stop acting like you don’t know. I saw, on Friday. You looked pretty cozy and I’m not stupid.”

Timmy’s expression is one of someone who just figured out the answers to all of life’s big questions. “Shit. Is that what this is about? Is that why you were mad at me? Fuck, Armie--” and then he just falls back down on the bed, laughing incredulously.

“I don’t think it’s particularly funny,” Armie points out, feeling like maybe he should just leave.

“No, no, of course, but. Man, Armie--” pushing off the bed, Timmy makes his way towards him.

“She’s got a role in a play, it’s a pretty big deal to her. She wanted help, someone to practice with and since I’m the gayest guy for miles around, she asked me. And I—well. I figured why the hell not. It’s been a while, and I had someone I wanted to impress too, you know,” Timmy says, stopping right in front of Armie but still not touching him. He’s blushing and Armie _really, really_ loves him.

“Who—who’d you need to--” Armie feels like the world is tilting on its axis.

“You, Armie. Come on, you said you weren’t stupid.”

“M-me?” Shit, when did it get so hard to breath?

“You. One and only,” Timmy whispers, his lips so close to Armie’s they’re practically brushing against each other. Letting his eyes fall to Timmy’s lips, Armie swallows.

_Me. He wanted to practice for me. He’s not kissing other girls. He’s kissing me._

Just as he’s about to kiss Timmy again, Michelle’s voice echoes down the hallway.

“Boys?” Pulling back, Timmy furrows his eyebrows.

“What do you think she wants?” he whispers. Armie shrugs.

Sighing deeply, Timmy calls back, “yeah?”

“Meet me in the living room? I--” a pause. “—I’ve got pizza.”

Timmy looks comically alarmed, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear behind curls.

“We better go out there,” Armie says, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah.”

Reaching for the lock on the door, Armie feels a hand stopping him.

“Wait,” Timmy says urgently.

“What?” Armie asks, turning to face him again. Timmy doesn’t say anything, but he does kiss him. He kisses him with a hard, drawn out press of lips that Armie feels all the way down to his toes, making his stomach swirl in joy. Pulling back, Timmy smiles a big, beaming smile.

“Ready,” he says. Armie can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes him. Fake headaches and broken restraining orders forgotten. 

* * *

To be honest, Armie thinks pizza with Michelle feels more like an exception than a regularity. That is, if her tense but none the less effortful try at being relaxed and chill is anything to go by. Then there’s Timmy who still looks a little thrown, a little on the edge too. And Armie remembers Timmy talking about not spending a lot of time with Michelle, so that might be a good explanation the awkward mood sticking to each of them, but Armie can’t help but think. Hope, really, that maybe he’s got something to do with Timmy’s wild eyes, the way he seems alert to every movement going on around him, every utterance. The way his cheeks are slightly rosy. Armie really, really wants it to be because of their kiss. Just a little.

_God, we really did kiss. I can’t believe that he wants to kiss me._

To be honest, Armie is just about ready shove his piece of pizza into his mouth and excuse himself, hoping that Timmy would follow. But then again – the way Michelle suggested that they watch a movie together, that they _eat_ together seems somewhat important. The way that she had asked him and Timmy about their days, seems downright expectational. So, Armie stays seated next to Timmy. Keeps his hands to himself the whole time through, even though all he wants to do is to reach out and touch, maybe let his lips follow the paths of his hands. 

When they reach the end of the movie though, Armie’s mind has seemed to detour away from anything regarding Timmy’s lips. It’s like the claws of cold, slimy fear has started manifesting in his chest, its infectious spiraling thoughts taking root in his brain.

He can’t stop thinking about his father. Armie had told him that he’d come back home.

Was that stupid? Should he have gone with him? Should he just have called the police, cried for help? Should he have told Timmy? _No._ Timmy worries. What if his father shows up here? What if he hurts Michelle or Timmy?

_I’ll kill him if he ever touches Timmy._

The sudden, intruding thought shocks Armie so badly, he needs to shake his head to get it to leave.

_I’m not like him._

When the movie is over, Timmy stretches and groans. Casts a glance at Armie and suddenly, Armie doesn’t know what to do next. He feels trapped between wanting to follow Timmy wherever he goes, not knowing if Timmy even wants him to follow _and_ feeling like he needs to do something about what happened at the school. Like, he needs to do something _right now_ or he’ll start panicking for real.

When Timmy stands up, Armie follows. Follows down the hallway and stops at his own door. Grips the doorhandle tightly, and looks at Timmy, who’s standing by his own door too. He looks hesitant.

“Goodnight, Armie,” Timmy says. Sends Armie a small smile and disappears into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Letting his head fall forward, Armie rests it on his door and closes his eyes. He won’t get to kiss Timmy goodnight, then. _Good._ It gives him the chance to speak to Michelle without Timmy listening.

* * *

Everything is cold. Cold and dark, the only light being pale shadows dancing around Armie, their whispers feeling like cold gushes of wind, pushing Armie around and around in circles.

Then, suddenly, he’s not being pushed around anymore. He’s being held down by something heavy. Something that squeezes tightly, tighter, tighter, until his lungs are empty, his whole face tightening, lips going numb. Clawing at the thing that’s tightening around him, Armie feels arms. Big, cotton clad arms, squeezing so hard he can’t even see the shadows anymore. Looking around in panic, Armie starts fighting, trying to get away, but he can’t move. His arms feel like melted rubber, his legs just not moving. Watching wave after wave of dark, stormy water crash towards him, Armie tries to stay above the surface, but the arms are holding him down, drowning him. The only thing that brakes through the black waves is a bone-crushing, ear-piercing scream that reaches Armie all the way into his core, making pain and despair explode in his chest. _Timmy._

Waking up with a jolt, Armie opens his eyes, gasping for air. It was just a dream. Just a dream. _Shit_. _He can’t hurt me. He can’t hurt me_

Trying to calm his panicked brain, Armie reminds himself that he’d told Michelle. Had gone back to the living room and stood there, waiting for her to look up from her phone, a worried expression on her face. Reminds himself that he’d told her exactly what had happened – that he’d told his father that he’d come back, even though he had no intention to. He thinks about the way Michelle’s jaw had tightened, her promises of dealing with it, of Armie not needing to worry about it

_I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe._

Sinking back into the bed, Armie tries to calm his beating heart, to clear his mind from the pictures of a nightmare. _The sound._ It doesn’t help at all. Every time he closes his eyes, the visions are back, the cold asphyxiating feeling enveloping him again. Timmy’s scream still echoing in his ears.

_If I could just see for myself that Timmy is alright_.

The way Armie still hears the sound in his ear almost convinces him that it must’ve been real.

Staring into the dark room, Armie considers his options. Considers might be an exaggeration. His brain is foggy from the nightmare, sleep still clinging to the part of his brain that filters his judgements. The only thing in his brain that works is the part that always seeks out Timmy. Armie lets it win.

Throwing back his sheets, Armie gets out bed, out of his room and tiptoes down the hallway, until he reaches Timmy’s door. It’s closed, and the short walk down here has woken up Armie enough for him to start doubting his actions. Carefully opening the door, Armie takes a step forward until he’s standing in the doorway.

Timmy is in the bed, sleeping in the same fetal position he always does.

“Timmy,” Armie whispers, his voice caught in his throat.

Clearing his throat, Armie tries again. “ _Timmy--_ ”

Watching Timmy turn in his sleep and groan, Armie feels regret and embarrassment cloud his brain.

_What am I doing here? Staring at him in the middle of the night like some creep. Go back to bed man. You’ve seen yourself now -he’s alright._

Just as Armie is about to turn around and head back to his own room, his own bed, as if nothing ever happened, Timmy sits up.

“Armie?” he croaks.

“Sorry. I just— it’s okay, go back to sleep,” Armie says, about to retreat from this embarrassing situation. He’s a grown ass man and he can’t even sleep in his own bed? Jesus.

“No, no. Come here,” Timmy says, lifting the corner of his sheets and scooting back on the bed

Armie is by his side in seconds, crawling into the bed. It’s still warm from where Timmy just slept, and everything smells like home.

“Nightmare?” Timmy asks, stuffing the sheets down and around Armie’s body, before he spoons him from behind, arm securely wrapped around Armie.

“Yeah. It’s stupid, I know,” Armie says, burrowing into the warmth of Timmy.

_You’re the best._

“It’s not. This is what you’ve got me for,” Timmy says, tightening his arm.

“Cuddles?”

“Yeah. Anytime you need it.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” _Because I don’t know how to explain that my worst nightmare ever was about you, screaming, and me not being able to get to you._

“Okay. Goodnight, Armie,” Timmy says, nuzzling his nose into the back of Armie’s hair.

_The absolute best in the whole world._

Armie doesn’t fall asleep. He can’t because the nightmare still clings to him, and the feeling of Timmy’s breath hitting the back of his neck is like the softest kind of torture Armie has ever experienced. The thought of Timmy’s lips so close to his skin makes Armie think about this afternoon. About how much he’s got to lose now.

“Timmy?” Armie whispers, keeping perfectly still as he waits.

“Yeah?” Timmy doesn’t sound like he was even close to sleep.

“We’re still not leaving each other. Right?” _Promise me._

“Never,” Timmy says defiantly. It makes Armie think about what Timmy told him the day they unpacked Armie’s stuff. About Armie being important.

“You’re important too, you know?” Armie whispers, knowing he’s only got balls to say this because it’s dark. Because it’s in the middle of the night, which means that he won’t be able to trace this back to any specific day and that way it doesn’t count if Timmy rejects him. Knows that he can always blame it on being sleep deprived, confused by his nightmare. Maybe, if it’s bad enough, he can’t stretch the lie and say that he was sleepwalking. And sleep talking

Timmy doesn’t answer, and for a moment, Armie thinks that at best, it’s because Timmy doesn’t remember his own words. But then, he feels lips on his cheek. Just one peck. Then one more. The third time he feels lips pressed to his skin, they’re at the corner of his mouth, and when he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, he turns his face towards Timmy. Let’s his hand hold on tight to Timmy’s when Timmy kisses him on the mouth. It’s a long, close-mouthed kiss that melts the remnants of Timmy’s scream and drowning waters away.

Timmy pulls back. Pecks Armie on the lips twice, before lying back down with a satisfied sigh.

“Can’t sleep?” Timmy asks, brushing his thumb back and forth on Armie’s forearm. Armie has no idea how much time has passed, but apparently, Timmy can’t sleep either.

“No. Every time I close my eyes it comes back,” Armie says.

“Do you think it would help if I read to you?” Timmy asks, his voice sounding as if Armie isn’t the only one feeling silly right now.

Armie thinks about it. Thinks about that time when Timmy read Little Women, and he fell asleep under the tree.

“Would you do that?” 

“Of course,” Timmy says, getting out of bed.

When he comes back, he situates himself on his back and opens his arm, inviting Armie to rest his head on Timmy’s chest. This way, Armie can hear the beating of his heart and feel the rise and fall of his breathing. That in itself is so calming, Armie doubts they’ll need the book.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve only gotten this one in French. But I think you know the story anyway, so,” Timmy says, placing a hand in Armie’s hair as he turns on his Kindle.

“ _Le petit prince,_ ” Timmy begins. And Armie feels a glowing warmth spread in his chest.

“Lorsque j’avais six and j’ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image, dans un livre sur la…”

_He remembered._

Armie is instantly taken back to the day they’d been lounging around on Timmy’s bed. Can almost hear Timmy asking him “ _if you could live in any fictional universe, which one would it be?_ ” Armie had thought for a second before answering that he’d live on the little planet in _The Little Prince_ where he’d maybe have his own little flower. He remembers how stupid he’d felt after saying that. How nervous he’d been that Timmy would be able to figure out that in some way, Timmy was Armie’s little flower.

Now, Armie can’t help but lift his head up, quickly placing a kiss on Timmy’s lips. Because

Timmy is reading Armie’s safe haven aloud to him, in French. And even though Armie doesn’t understand a word, he doesn’t need to.

Timmy is speaking French, and it sounds like melting chocolate, and Armie’s eyes fall shut in an instead. The consistent fingers in his hair, the thud-thud of Timmy’s, heart, and the foreign but yet familiar words lulling him into a safe slumber.

* * *

The next day, Nick insists that they hang out. Armie had been unsure if he really wanted to, because of this whole thing with Timmy. Like, what better way to spend a Friday night than with the person you’re _in love with,_ especially since that person apparently wants to kiss you too.

But then the doubt had made itself present. Because what if it was a one-time thing? Alright, technically a two-time thing, but if Armie could reserve the right to cancel out things happening in the dark of the night, then so could Timmy. So, Armie had told himself that it was only the kisses in his room that really counted (even though it _had_ felt like Timmy was trying to make it count when he’d kissed Armie before reading him to sleep, but maybe Timmy needed comfort too. Whatever.)

The thing is, Armie isn’t really sure where they stand. At all. He doesn’t even know where he wants them to stand. The only thing he knows is where he definitely _doesn’t_ want them to stand.

He doesn’t want things to be awkward between. He doesn’t want to force Timmy to something, doesn’t want to come off too strong. He doesn’t want Timmy to know the whole story.

The whole story being that Armie is so scared of losing Timmy that he’d rather keep his distance for the rest of his life than risk a bad outcome. Because the truth is that ever since realizing that what he feels for Timmy is love, pure, dedicated, soul-wrenching non-platonic love, Armie feels like it has accelerated. It feels as if the time before Timmy was a grey mash of dullness carrying no purpose other than just moving around in a fog. It feels as if wherever Timmy is, there is color and light, warmth and meaning. Armie wants more of that, and at the same time he almost wishes that he could have the comfort of the numb, grey fog back.

It’s a paradox, really. How he can’t stand being without Timmy but at the same time feeling like he could break any time when Timmy is around.

The point is, Armie wants more of Timmy’s kisses, but he’s not brave enough to ask for them. So, he doesn’t talk to Timmy about it. Doesn’t reach out when the urge arises. He basically acts as if it never happened, and to Armie’s dread, Timmy does too.

So, the demand from Nick to hang out is actually a pretty welcome one. He’ll still get to spend time with Timmy, but there’ll be distractions.

The distractions, however, comes in the shape of booze and weed. And it’s fine, because all of Armie’s favorite people are gathered. Timmy, Nick, Ashton, Henry and Tyler.

Timmy, who bounces around, greeting the guys with more energy than Armie has been able to muster up all week.

Tyler gets a weird sort of bow, where Timmy clasps his hands together in a prayer-like shape and doubles forward.

Then, he’s on to Ashton, who’s already holding up his fist, knocking his knuckles against Timmy’s.

For Henry, there’s a giddy one-armed hug, rapid claps on the back and a “yo man!” followed by his most dorky laughter.

It’s Nick he’d be jealous at if it weren’t for the fact that that would be ridiculous. Grabbing both Nick’s hands in his own, Timmy brings them to his mouth and kisses the knuckles, before grinning up at him, telling him “man, it’s so good to see you,” and Armie snorts.

Shakes his head, because Timmy saw Nick just a couple of hours ago. Snorts, because Armie knows what signs to look for, so he doesn’t miss the way Henry starts moving towards the two, eyes falling into suspicious slits.

Timmy stays oblivious, throwing himself down on the couch. Armie catches Nick’s eye, eyebrow raised in question, just as Henry comes to a stop next to Nick. Now, if Armie wanted to be jealous, he would choose _that._ The seemingly easy way in which Nick and Henry just… do it.

Armie takes a seat in the armchair across from the couch and Timmy. Better keep some distance.

Two hours later, Armie thanks his past judgement. The beers he’s been steadily consuming have left a pleasant buzz, making him feel lose and relaxed. He can’t even remember why he’s scared of losing Timmy, not when he looks at him right now.

Coming back from the bathroom, Timmy perks up at the sound of _Baptized In Fire_ and does a giddy twirl, pumping his hands in the air to the lazy bass-heavy beat pumping from the speakers. Armie almost feels dizzy watching him and wonders how the kid does it. He’s had at least as much to drink as Armie, and Amie is about twice the size of him.

_Is there anything he can’t do? Well, he can definitely make me hard._

Armie chuckles drunkenly out loud at his own thoughts. Shit, he really is getting hard. Sitting up right in the chair, Armie leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, trying to hide the bulge forming in his pants.

“What’s funny?” Timmy giggles. Stepping up to Armie, he stands between his legs, pushing at Armie’s shoulders with both hands, making Armie fall back in the chair. He’s not really sure if it’s Timmy or the booze making this lose, but what does it even matter?

“You. Tiny dancer. Tiny Timmy,” Armie says, already laughing.

“Oh, I’m tiny, huh?” Timmy asks, fighting to keeps his features serious.

“The tiniest of them all.” As if proving a point Armie hadn’t even thought about, he places his own huge palms on Timmy’s hips, pulling him down on top of him. Landing with an “oof,” Timmy’s ass only misses Armie’s cock by an inch or so.

“Does that mean you’re gonna carry me home later?”

Closing his eyes for a second, Armie tries not to moan out loud at the feeling of Timmy’s fingers in the back of his hair.

“What makes you think I’ll be able to do that?” Armie asks, leaning into the touch. He feels like puddy.

“I don’t know…” Timmy drawls, letting his hand run down the back of Armie’s neck, over his shoulder and down his sweater-clad bicep. By the time Timmy’s hand reaches his naked forearms, Armie feels goosebumps arising all over his skin. Letting his finger draw circles on the inside of Armie’s wrist, Timmy finishes his sentence in a low, raspy voice, “-you just look like you could take me pretty easily.” 

When Armie looks Timmy in the eye, he feels his dick twitch in his pants. Timmy’s eyes are dark, blown pools of green, his lips slightly parted.

_Fuck, what is happening? Shit. I can’t be the only one feeling this._

Placing his hands on Timmy’s ass, Armie pulls him flush against himself, biting the inside of his cheek when he feels the friction on his hard cock. Letting out a gasp, Timmy clutches Armie’s wrist in his hand.

Armie is _this_ freaking close to saying fuck it to everything. To the guys literally being in the same room, to being scared of losing the most important thing in his life. _This_ god damned close to kissing Timmy, to pull him even closer, to promise that he’ll carry him anywhere.

_This_ close, when Tyler calls out “ _dude!_ ” his hand, holding a lit spliff nudging Armie in the side. Snapping out of it, Armie grunts. Takes the spliff, not thinking about how weed has never helped him filter his actions, never made him think clearly and pulls a mouthful of heavy smoke down his lungs. Leans his head back and releases the rest, letting the weed seep into his bloodstream. Does it again and offers the joint to Timmy, who’s still sitting in his lap, eyes dazed, and cheeks flushed.

Watching Timmy’s lips wrap around the spliff makes Armie’s breathing go shallow, his hands tightening on Timmy’s thighs. _Fuuuuuck._

When Timmy rounds his lips, blowing out perfect rings, Armie closes his eyes in order not to grind up against Timmy’s ass.

By the time Armie is taking his fifth hit, Timmy has made himself comfortable with his back resting against one armrest, his legs dangling over the edge of the other, ass firmly nestled in Armie’s lap. Reaching a hand towards the ceiling, he twists it around in complicated patterns, curls falling away from his face.

“Fuck. I need some fresh air,” Nick groans, standing up.

“Wait for me,” Henry says, following Nick out of the room.

Armie leans his head back, hands sliding up and down Timmy’s thighs. His cock is still hard, his blood still burning with the need for Timmy.

“I’m gonna call it a night,” Tyler groans, rubbing his eyes as he stands from the couch.

“Mmh,” Armie grunts, reaching out a hand, letting it slap against Tyler’s as he moves past him and Timmy, leaving the room too.

Looking for Ashton, Armie finds him passed out in a bean bag in the corner by the TV.

It dawns on Armie that he’s alone with Timmy. Timmy, who’s definitely not asleep.

“Give me that,” Armie says, reaching for the joint in Timmy’s hand.

Raising his head, Timmy looks at Armie. His lips form a crooked smile, his eyelashes fluttering when he looks down at Armie’s mouth. Armie’s mouth that feels dry and he’s positive that this time, it’s not the weed doing it. The room is quiet, save for _Keep Running_ by Tei Shi streaming quietly from the speakers. Armie feels warm. Warm, and hazy, and so fucking hard. He feels like he’s been hard for hours.

“This?” Timmy asks, holding up the joint.

“Yeah,” Armie nods, hands tightening on Timmy’s thighs. Swinging his legs off the armrest, Timmy changes his position. When he’s still again, he’s straddling Armie, their faces inches apart. Armie feels his chest rising and falling in anticipating breaths, his hands automatically sliding up beneath Timmy’s shirt. His skin is warm and soft, just like he remembers Timmy’s lips being.

“Open your mouth for me,” Timmy rasps. Then, he brings the joint to his own lips, taking at deep hit, eyes staying on Armie’s.

Armie doesn’t even ask, just opens his mouth, watching Timmy lean in. The next thing he feels is his mouth filling with heavy smoke. When Armie closes his mouth around it, Timmy opens his own mouth, his lips closing over Armie’s, the tips of their tongues brushing against each other.

Feeling a deep, rumbling groan erupt from somewhere deep within his own chest, Armie surges forward. He needs _more._

And fuck, he should’ve known. Should’ve known that Timmy is a fucking tease.

When Timmy pulls back from Armie’s hungry kiss, a small giggle slipping out of his mouth, Armie _whimpers._ Placing one hand on the naked skin between Timmy’s shoulder blades, the other one at the back of his head, Armie pulls him back down. Almost lifts both of them off of the chair with his need to have Timmy closer.

Timmy complies, framing Armie’s face with the hand not holding the joint. Leans in and _licks_ across Armie’s lips. Lets the tip of his tongue run from beneath Armie’s bottom lip, stopping for a second between Armie’s lips before continuing up across the upper lip. Feeling his eyes roll to the back of his head, Armie moans at the feeling of the hot, wet trail left behind on his lips.

When he surges forward again, Timmy moans back, arm coming around Armie’s neck, holding them close together.

It’s urgent, wet and hot. Hot and so, so, so deep Armie feels it all the way down to his stomach.

“Armie-- fuck,” Timmy whimpers, grinding his ass against Armie’s hard cock at the same time as he grabs a fistful of hair. “More,” Armie grunts, pulling Timmy down at the same time as he thrust up. It draws a quiet groan out of the both of them, and when Armie feels the stiff line of Timmy’s dick against his abs, he fears for a second that he’s going to come in his pants.

“So hard, fuck,” Timmy pants, grinding down again, his lips sliding against Armie’s. Armie’s not sure who Timmy’s talking about. The fact that it could easily be the both of them makes him groan even louder, making the both of them go completely still when a deep sigh, followed by some rustling sounds from the bean bag.

_Not completely alone. Not alone enough for things to escalate like this._

Leaning back, Armie pulls in a deep breath, running a hand down his face. Feeling Timmy lean back in, Armie places his hands on slim shoulder’s running them down Timmy’s chest as he sighs into Timmy's mouth, kissing back lazily.

“Maybe we should-” kiss, “get out of here-” kiss “go home, you know.” Sucking Armie’s bottom lip between his teeth, Timmy releases it again before he leans back.

“As long as you don’t want me to carry you,” Armie says, feeling dazed and happy.

“Whatever way is faster,” Timmy says, nibbling on the soft flesh of Armie’s earlobe. It makes Armie shudder violently, his breath catching.

“Yeah?”

Timmy runs his nose along the vein on the side of Armie’s throat, his tongue following. “Yeah.”

They leave the car at Nick’s place, both of them too intoxicated on each other, weed and alcohol to be able to drive. The fresh air seems to clear Armie’s brain from the weed-induced fog clouding his brain, but Timmy’s constant grip on his hand makes him forget where they are half the time. That results in hungry, hurried kisses all the way to Timmy’s place. Armie’s place, their place, whatever. 

All the way home, Armie imagines just about fifty different things he wants to do to Timmy when they get home. By the time they’ve made it inside the apartment, down the hallway and into Timmy’s room, Armie can’t even think of one.

His back against the door, Armie feels his body start vibrating with nerves.

Standing by the bed is Timmy, illuminated by the warm glow of the fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. He’s looking expectantly at Armie, arms hanging by his sides.

Armie can feel the way his cock is calming down as if giving his heart a chance. A chance at speeding up in a mix of glee and nervousness.

What are they going to do from here? Who’s going to take the next step? Should they talk about it first? Armie’s not sure he can talk about it; he doesn’t really know what there even is to talk about.

_I love you. No, not as a friend. As someone who has unknowingly, possibly even unwillingly, claimed my heart and my soul for good. I can’t do anything about it, you can’t do anything about it, what’s done is done. So, I want you to have me, just as much as I want to have you, but I don’t know how. Well, I do know how, but I don’t think I’m ready. I know I’m not ready. And yet, I’m ready for you, all of you. Yeah, I’m confused too._

Armie can’t say that. Damn it. Did he ruin it all already?

Stepping up to him, Timmy takes his hands in his, pulling him towards the bed on the floor. Kisses him on the jaw and whispers, “stop thinking so hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Kiss me.” And Armie does. He kisses Timmy carefully, tentatively. Doesn’t want to rush towards the next step, because he doesn’t know what that is, and honestly, he’s a little scared to know. When Timmy pulls them down on the bed, Armie follows. When Timmy crawls on top of Armie, pushing him down until he’s lying flat on his back, Armie brushes his hands through Timmy’s curls, trying to focus on the feeling of his lips.

It’s hard, because his heart is racing, and his mind is hurtling towards a place where he knows that he’ll be stuck in endless loops of doubts and insecurities.

“Hey,” Timmy whispers, pulling back to look down at Armie. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I mean, I understand if you don’t, you know—with me, and--”

_No. No, no, no._

“What? Timmy, no,” Armie cuts him off, cupping Timmy’s cheek in his palm.

“No? Oh, alright. I’ll just--” when Timmy starts climbing off of Armie, Armie panics.

“Wait. I want to. With you.” Timmy stills. “You sure?” he asks, settling down next to Armie.

“I’m sure,” Armie promises, following the curve of Timmy’s cheekbone with his finger.

“It’s just--” taking in a deep breath, Armie sighs. “I’ve never—not with anyone,” shaking his head from side to side, Armie hopes that Timmy understands.

Looking surprised, Timmy pushes up on an elbow. “Wait. You’ve never—like, anything at all?”

“Never.”

“Oh. _Armie,_ ” Timmy sighs, kissing his cheek. Armie can feel it burning in embarrassment. He’s eighteen for crying out loud.

“I’m, uh. I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because—well. You probably thought that—and I, I don’t know if I can. I want to, I really, really want to. But I don’t think—ugh. I don’t think I’m ready,” Armie says, looking everywhere but Timmy.

Placing his finger beneath Armie’s chin, Timmy makes Armie look at him again.

“Don’t you ever apologize for not being ready for something. We’ll just—we’ll take it slow, yeah? If you want to. Or we can just do what we did before or not do anything at all. Whatever you want,” Timmy says, his face soft but serious.

_I love you. Thank you._

“Slow is good,” Armie answers, already feeling that tight twisting heat in his stomach again.

“Yeah? Like this?” Running his hand down Armie’s chest, Timmy stops right before he reaches the zipper of his pants. Then, he runs it back up again, across the side of Armie’s face, before he tangles his fingers in Armie’s hair.

“A little more,” Armie says, already looking at Timmy’s mouth.

“You can always have more.” Then, he takes Armie’s mouth in his own again.

When the nerves fizzle away, making room for that urgent need he’d felt earlier again, Armie groans and rolls to the side, feeling Timmy’s thigh slot in between his own. Carefully, he grinds down on it. It makes his cock tingle and twitch, the stiffness of it making him groan. He needs more but he doesn’t know how. He does it again, swallowing Timmy’s muffled whimpers and moans.

“Again,” Timmy pants, carefully pushing his thigh up against Armie’s crotch.

“Yes, like that. Fuck, take what you need Armie. Yes, yes--” Rolling his hips in a steady rhythm, Armie feels dizzy with a hot, burning need. It feels so good and yet it’s not enough. He needs more, more, more.

Releasing Timmy’s face, he places his palm right where his jeans and sweater meet. When he pushes against Timmy’s thigh again, he feels the head of his hard cock peek out, leaving a wet spot on his hand.

“Fuuuck,” Timmy groans, looking down between their bodies.

“Shit, Armie. Touch yourself, I wanna see, please.” Feeling all apprehensiveness fly out the window, Armie desperately opens his pants, pulling them down, kicking them off the rest of the way together with his boxers. It’s not until he feels the slightly cool air hit his naked legs that he realizes that he’s naked in front of another man. In front of _Timmy._ Beautiful, perfect Timmy.

Running his hands up and down Armie’s naked thighs, around the swell of his ass and up to his hips, Timmy looks at him, eyes wide with wonder.

“You’re so fucking hot. Like, you have no idea. I can’t believe that—fuck, Armie I wish you could see yourself like this,” Timmy says, starting to trail kisses up Armie’s arm, across his shoulder, stopping between his collarbones where he starts kissing, nibbling and licking.

Armie feels like he’s floating. It’s like Timmy doesn’t know that he’s the extraordinary one here.

“Let me see you,” Timmy whispers, placing Armie’s hand on Armie’s own cock.

And Armie lets him see. It starts with slow strokes up and down his cock, Timmy’s eyes dark and wide. Flicking his wrist on the upstroke, swiping his thumb across the head, Armie groans at the pleasure he’s giving himself. Just the fact that Timmy is watching him touch his own cock is making pre-come ooze out of the slit, and _shit,_ who would’ve thought that.

Keeping up the rhythm, Armie leans back in, needing Timmy’s mouth on his own as he starts pumping his cock a little faster.

As he feels his balls tighten, his cock stiffening even further, he pulls back a little, makes up enough space for his words to come out, “Timmy, I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck--” and then he comes. Hot, white cum spurting out across Timmy’s bedsheets, hitting his pants too and Armie instantly feels bad. Would probably have started apologizing if it weren’t for the sight in front of him. Pushing up against his own hand in one hard push, Timmy’s body stills completely, a muffled moan of _“Armie”_ slipping out into the room and shit.

Timmy just came in his pants, just by watching Armie rub his own cock. _Fuck._

Kissing Timmy’s cheek, his jaw, his nose, his lips, Armie doesn’t say anything but hopes that Timmy will know anyway.

_You’re so beautiful, and I promise, if you should ever need anyone to love you, and you can’t find anyone else, then I’ll be here, waiting._

Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	15. Broken children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes blinking into focus, Armie remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little something that needed to be done in order for the next chapter to work out.   
> Next one will be up soon ✌🏼

When Armie wakes up the next morning, he feels cold. His mouth feels like it has been stuffed with cotton and the lights streaming in from the window above him is way too bright. Eyes blinking into focus, Armie remembers. Remembers how he’d kissed Timmy last night. No—they’d made out. Heavy, dirty kisses with hands grabbing everywhere they could, and it had made them end up here. In Timmy’s bed, with Armie’s pants discharged and memories that feel too good to be true. Looking to the side, Armie’s heart thuds heavily against his ribcage.

Right next to him is Timmy, looking so incredibly beautiful and... and-- shit. This is too good to be true. _He's_ too good for Armie. Too good and smart, and doesn't he deserve someone better? He does, and Armie doesn't know how to be that. Because Timmy deserves everything and Armie-- Armie is nothing.

Swallowing, Armie looks down his own naked body. There's dried, crusty cum everywhere and nausea that starts churning in his stomach, his throat makes him want to hurl. He should've been better. He shouldn't have touched Timmy last night-- precious, beautiful Timmy who's been through enough already. And yes, Armie loves him with a force so violent that it scares him, but that doesn't mean that he can do it properly.

Isn't that how these things go? Broken children grow into broken adults and they won’t just be broken for themselves, they’ll be broken for others too. Armie is broken-- he never experienced love, not for real. Timmy did. And he deserves someone who won't be afraid to love him now either, to be by his side. Timmy has been out of the closet for what Armie is sure must be the most of his life, and Armie is so far from out as one can be. Actually, right now he isn't even sure if he'll ever want to come out.

He should just let Timmy go. Should get out of his bed, wash away the evidence of the crime he committed to last night, and never look back. Because it feels like a crime—to have taken something like this from Timmy, when, let’s be real, Armie can’t give more than that, doesn’t know how to express his feelings beyond physical displays of affection. Can’t imagine himself telling Timmy for real how he feels, can’t imagine holding his hand in bright daylight on the sidewalks. Almost feels sick by the thought of telling his own family, and Timmy would think that it was about him. Would think that Armie is ashamed of him when in reality, Armie is only ashamed of himself. By his greediness and cowardness.

Pressing the heels of his hand into his stinging eyes, Armie takes a steadying breath. Opens his eyes again and looks at Timmy, who’s still sleeping, his lips still a little swollen. And Armie wants to reach out and touch, just a little, just for the sake of closure. Just one last taste of heaven. But he doesn’t. No, because this is what got him here in the first place. He’s greedy and he keeps on taking from Timmy, perfectly aware that he won’t ever be able to offer anything back. At least, not enough. Timmy offered him friendship, helped him out of a dangerous home and gave him a place to stay. Even offered Armie to be a part of his own group of friends. Armie is already in way too much debt. He won’t take anymore.

He’ll still love Timmy. Probably for the rest of his life. Will never be able to look at anyone else, touch anyone else, without comparing them to Timmy. Will never be able to fully commit to anyone else, because that part of his heart will always be taken, but it’s alright. Armie will be fine with it because Timmy will be happy, will get what he truly deserves and should he ever, for some incomprehensible reason come to look for Armie, then Armie will be there. Will welcome him with open arms and let him into that sacred place in his heart that he kept unoccupied, just for Timmy. It wouldn’t difficult, then. Not for Armie.

Timmy will always have someone who loves him unconditionally. And that will have to be enough for Armie for now. To know that as long as he is around, Timmy will never be truly alone.

So, Armie scoots out of the bed, careful not jostle Timmy. Locates his clothes and puts them on quietly. Then, he moves across the room, opens the door and slips out into the hallway, not once looking back.

Timmy will be better off this way. He probably won’t even notice that Armie is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	16. Baby, I'm yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking Timmy in the eye, Armie dives into the deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you can breathe again! I'm sorry to spring that last chapter on you 😁  
> Srsly., you don't have to be scared when reading this one, I promise. Timmy's got your back.

**Timmy**

When Timmy wakes up, it’s to the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut. Pushing up on an elbow, he scans the room. It’s so fucking bright. Why hadn’t he closed the curtains the night before? _Right._ Timmy remembers with a satisfied smirk.

_He’d been busy_.

Falling back down on the bed, Timmy pats the place on his bed where Armie had just been. It’s still warm. Rolling over, Timmy lets go of all of his inhibitions and presses his nose into the sheets, breathing in deep. Everything smells just the way he hoped they would—of warm, sleepy Armie.

Staying where he is, Timmy closes his eyes and dives into the treasure of memories. Thinks about how Armie’s hands had felt on his hips, the back of his head, pulling at Timmy’s curls. How Armie had kissed him with the same vigour as a starved man would devour a feast. Remembers the sounds Armie had made, the noises floating out of his mouth, enveloping Timmy in a heavy blanket of need and burning lust.

The way Armie had touched himself in front of Timmy, letting Timmy swallow up his moans as he’d cum all over them.

Breathing in deep again, Timmy pushes his hardening cock into the mattress. Wonders if it would be wrong if he came to the smell of Armie. If he concentrated on the phantom feeling of his hands, bringing himself to orgasm right here where Armie just slept. He might be back in just a minute. It already feels so good though, and Timmy can feel the way his dick gets harder and harder the more he thinks about grinding into the spot where Armie’s cum has surely dried up by now.

_I am so fucking disturbed._

Groaning, Timmy grinds his hips again. Finds a spot on the sheets that smells even more of Armie and breathes in. Pushes his hips into the mattress two more times and decides, _what the hell,_ before he rolls onto his back, opens his already cum-soaked pants and pushes them down his legs, off the bed. The hit the floor with a thud.

The feeling of soft sheets against his naked, hard cock makes Timmy moan. Shit, if he could just listen to Armie again. If he could taste him, have him in his mouth and know that his senses were filled with nothing but Armie and his heavy, hard cock pumping in and out of Timmy.

It doesn’t take Timmy more than a couple of minutes, the smell of Armie and pictures of Armie’s hand around his own cock to make him cum. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, Timmy stills. Hands gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles turn white as he spills into the sheets, mixing with Armie’s dry cum. A whimper escapes his lips and as the world turns black and stars explodes behind his eyes, Timmy wants Armie to see him. Wants him to come back into the room and see Timmy like this, coming to the smell of him.

Rolling on to his back, Timmy sighs in post-orgasmic bliss, all of his muscles giving out.

“Shit,” he murmurs, looking down at himself. Maybe a shower would be good. And where is Armie anyway?

Timmy showers. Smiles to himself and bites his lip when he imagines how he’s going to go find Armie. How he’s going to put his arms around him and kiss him. First, on the neck where he’s warm, right where his stubble begins. Then, the cheek and at last, his mouth. Imagines how he’ll tell him _good morning_ before Armie kisses him back, softly but wanting.

Timmy finds Armie in the kitchen. Sitting with his back to Timmy, shoulders hunched over what Timmy assumes must be a bowl of cereal. His jockers and long-sleeved t-shirt make him look so soft, Timmy wants to squeeze him and ruffle his hair. He doesn’t though. All fantasies from the shower and the courage appertaining to them has completely left the building. All Timmy is left with, is a nervous twitch, making him fidget with the bottom of his sweater. Not knowing where the sudden nervousness comes from, Timmy tries to straighten up. Breathes all the way down to his stomach and walks past Armie, letting his hand slide across the back of Armie’s shoulders. It’s fleeting enough to not be cursory and yet more intimate than what friends would do. In Timmy’s world, they moved past that stage last night.

“Morning,” he says. Scans the table and doesn’t spot any coffee. That’s odd. Armie always has coffee in the morning.

All he gets in return is a curt, “morning,” and the sound of Armie chewing. Trying to push down the tightening feeling in his gut, Timmy starts making coffee. Grabs himself a bowl of cereal and takes a seat next to Armie. They usually sit opposite one another, but Timmy can’t help himself—he wants to be close to Armie.

“How did you sleep?” Timmy asks, seeking out Armie’s foot with his own. Just as he thinks he’s found it; the foot disappears again.

“It was fine,” Armie answers. He doesn’t sound fine, though. Staring down at his food, Timmy chews his bottom lip, fingers tightening around his spoon. _It’s probably nothing. Maybe he just had a nightmare. Maybe he’s hungover. Maybe—maybe he’s just not feeling well._

When Armie doesn’t ask Timmy back or say anything else, Timmy tries one more time. He clings to the knowledge that they were both there last night—that Armie wanted Timmy too. Timmy is sure of it.

“Hey,” Timmy says, placing a hand on Armie’s back. The immediate reaction he gets is a soft sigh, Armie’s shoulder relaxing a little. It spurs Timmy on, making him slide the hand up the nape of Armie’s neck where he squeezes, just once, before he moves his hands up further, into soft hair. “Are you alright?” Timmy murmurs, fingers scratching Armie’s scalp. When Timmy doesn’t get an instant reply, he moves closer, wants to lean his forehead against Armie’s temple, wants the reassurance that it’s not his fault that Armie seems… _off._

The reassurance doesn’t come, because Armie tenses up beneath Timmy’s fingers. His shoulders raise up higher, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “I’m fine,” Armie answers, abruptly standing from his chair, making Timmy’s hand fall down.

Timmy feels the cold, twisting sign of panic spread throughout his stomach and chest.

“I was waiting for you… in bed,” he croaks. Armie doesn’t answer. Just turns on the tap at the highest level, the loud sound of water gushing into the sink, hitting metal and porcelain filling the kitchen. Standing from his seat, Timmy steps up to Armie but stops before he gets too close. Something has happened, and Timmy didn’t see it coming.

“Armie? What’s wrong? Was it something that I said, or did, or--”

“Why would anything be wrong?” Armie asks, cutting Timmy off in the middle of his spiralling ramble.

“I- I don’t know. Maybe last night, when--”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Armie says. Then, before Timmy has the chance to answer, Armie pushes away from the counter and leaves the kitchen.

_I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re—_

Feeling like he’d just been slapped across the face, Timmy grabs his bowl of cereal. Throws the whole thing into the trash, not sparring the milk a thought. His breathing is getting shallow, his hands shaking. Marching into his room, Timmy slams the door shut behind him.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

There, all over the bed are proof of what Timmy had been talking about. The proof of how stupid Timmy had been just half an hour ago. Feeling a burst of anger surge through his body, Timmy starts ripping off the sheets. Throws them down on the floor and barely stops himself from screaming when the sheets land with a soft, quiet swoosh. He wants to smash something. Picking up a pillow, he rips off the pillowcase before he hurls the pillow across the room where it smacks against the door, landing on the floor with a soft thud. It does nothing to satisfy his heaving, aching chest.

Sitting down on the edge of his mattress, Timmy bites the inside of his cheeks so hard he’s convinced he can taste blood. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry._

God, he should’ve known. Should’ve known that to Armie, he is nothing but an experiment. At best, Armie had just been horny and Timmy had been the prettiest thing around. The most willing.

_Always so fucking willing when it comes to him, aren’t you?_

Picking up the dirty sheets, Timmy fights his stinging eyes as he stuffs the laundry into the washing machine and lets the remnants of what had been special to him wash away. What had been so, so special but had ended with embarrassment and rejection.

When pictures of what Timmy had originally wanted to do to Armie this morning flash before his eyes, Timmy chokes back a whimper. _Don’t fucking cry._

He doesn’t cry. Not the way he really wants to, because this has been embarrassing enough. He holds back screams of frustration and cries of disappointment, because Armie is right down the hallway and fuck no if Timmy’s going to let him know that he _feels_ something. Not now, no way.

Instead, he lets the tears stream silently as he makes his bed and opens his window to gets the last air from last night out. Wipes at his eyes when his vision is too blurry to see what he’s doing and breathes shuddering breathes when the urge to let go of a sob becomes too great. The lump in his throat hurts and his chest feels tight by the time he crawls into the clean bed. He spends the better part of the day staring at the door, hoping for Armie to walk through it. Hoping for Armie to come back and pull Timmy into his arms, tell him that he didn’t mean what he said. Maybe even let Timmy kiss him again.

It never happens. When Timmy’s nose is too stuffy to breathe through, his eyes so raw that it hurts when the salt of new tears run down his cheeks, he falls asleep.

When he wakes up again, it’s getting dark outside and his bed is too warm. Kicking off the covers, Timmy curls in on himself. The sleep had done nothing to erase the hurt in his chest.

Staring into the dark room, listening to the quiet apartment, Timmy doesn’t feel like crying anymore. No, he just feels angry. Betrayed.

Armie had wanted him too. Armie kissed back, more than once, had even initiated it half the time. _Fuck him._

Fuck him for thinking that he can just make this look like Timmy’s imagination running wild.

Fuck him for always crawling back into his shelve, leaving Timmy grasping air.

Fuck him for making Timmy feel like this. He’s not going to get away with it. No. fucking. way.

Getting out of bed, Timmy throws open his bedroom door before he can regret anything. Stomps down the hallway, because 1; he’s furious and 2; Armie might need a warning.

Sending a quick prayer out there for Armie’s door to be unlocked, Timmy grabs the handle and throws the door open. It hits the wall with a loud bang, making Armie look up from his phone in shock. His hair is wild, his eyes tired.

“Timmy--”

“Don’t you fucking give me this bullshit, Armie.”

“What?” Armie asks, sitting up in bed, alarm clear on his face.

“You and I both know that you remember just fine what happened last night--” Timmy spits, pointing a finger accusingly at Armie. Opening his mouth, Armie looks as if he’s about to cut Timmy off, but Timmy isn’t having it.

“If you regret it, just tell me. If you don’t want to talk about it again, just grow some balls and tell me god dammit, but don’t act like I’m stupid, because I swear to God, Armie--”

“Timmy, will you calm down?”

“Calm down? _Calm down--_ ”

“Yes, please--”

“I am fucking calm!”

“You are literally yelling at me.”

“I’ll yell at you if I want to because you don't fucking listen!” Timmy explodes.

Then, there’s silence. The only sound being Timmy’s laboured breathing and bedsheets rustling when Armie gets out of bed.

“Can we just—here,” closing the door quietly, Armie comes to stand in front of Timmy. Rubbing his face with a hand, Armie looks around the room. Sighs deeply and looks back at Timmy.

“Armie--” Timmy begins, his voice breaking. The more he looks at Armie, the more he realizes that Armie looks like shit. Timmy barely feels angry anymore. Just confused and lost.

“Please don’t hate me,” Armie says, his eyes pleading. And then—then, he takes a step forward, crowding Timmy against the closed door, both hands on either side of Timmy’s face. Timmy feels trapped. It doesn’t matter. He’d rather be trapped by Armie forever than having him turn his back on him one more time.

Just as Timmy is about to answer, to say something along the lines of, “I could never,” Armie kisses him.

Kisses him deeply, hands framing Timmy’s face, mouth already open.

The flood of relief that crashes over Timmy is so immense he needs to hold on to something.

Holding on to Armie’s shoulders, Timmy pulls them close, moaning at the feeling of Armie’s tongue against his own. His breath is slightly stale, but Timmy wants it all. Wants all of Armie, so lets him push closer, deeper.

Placing both hands on Armie’s chest, Timmy starts walking them towards the general direction of the bed, lips never leaving Armie’s. When reaching the bed, Timmy pushes Armie down, making him land with a gasp, eyes wide open in surprise. Still standing in front of the bed, Timmy raises an eyebrow at Armie. “Do you want this?” even to his own ears he sounds stern. Maybe even demanding.

Armie swallows, already nodding eagerly.

“Say it. Tell me you want me, Armie.”

“I want you, Timmy, I do, but--”

“No buts. Do you want me, the way that I want you?” Timmy asks, voice shaking a little.

“I don’t know how you want me,” Armie says, trying to get up from the bed, hands reaching for Timmy. Batting them away, Timmy pushes Armie back down on the bed.

“I want to kiss you,” Timmy says, leaning down. “I want to kiss you right here.” Kissing Armie on the neck, Timmy is rewarded with a shudder. “And here--” kissing Armie behind his ear, Timmy gets a whimper. “Here--” placing a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the edge of Armie’s jaw, Timmy feels a thrill roll down his spine when Armie sighs. “I want to kiss you like this,” Timmy murmurs, claiming Armie’s mouth. When Armie groans and grabs Timmy’s hips, Timmy pulls back.

“Do you regret last night?” _I just need to know._

“No, I promise. Fuck, Timmy, I didn’t mean it like that, I swear,” Armie frowns.

“Then shut up and kiss me,” Timmy says, excitement and relief rolling off of him in waves.

Pushing further up on the bed, Armie’s eyes are heavy-lidded as Timmy crawls on top of him. Stays on top of him as he places a hand in his hair, mouth trailing kisses from Armie’s collarbone to his mouth. “You don’t,” _kiss,_ “fucking,” _kiss,_ “get to,” _kiss, moan,_ “do that again,” Timmy says, fighting for his thoughts to stay on track while Armie’s lips and hands suddenly seem to be everywhere. Timmy’s words though make Armie pause and pull back.

“Do what?” Armie asks, hand getting lost in Timmy’s curls.

Moaning, Timmy arches his back as Armie tightens his grip on Timmy’s hair. “Leave me,” he groans. When Armie comes to a sudden stop, Timmy whines.

“I’ll never leave you, Timmy. You’ll always have me.” Armie looks deadly serious. It completely knocks the wind out of Timmy. “Yeah. Me too. Always,” Timmy promises. Seeming to be searching Timmy’s eyes for a second, Armie just nods. Let’s his hands slide from Timmy’s hair to his face, gently cupping his cheeks.

When Timmy leans in again, the heat is gone. Instead, it has left room for slow kisses, soft caresses and something Timmy can’t quite put a finger on. It feels delicate and indestructible at the same time. As if it has formed a bubble around them, pulled them together in a way Timmy doesn’t quite understand. It’s not just the feeling of being in love. He’s known that one for some time now. But this one feeling—it’s as if it doesn’t concern just him anymore. As if it claimed the both of them and Timmy doesn’t recognize it, but when Armie rubs a thumb carefully back and forth on his cheekbone, he leaves it be. Pulls back and lets himself be cuddled in Armie’s tight embrace.

“We should probably talk,” Timmy mumbles, the warmth of Armie seeping into his bones, his core. _This is where I belong. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way._

“I know,” Armie murmurs, his voice sounding far away and drowsy.

Soon, the hand that was drawing circles on Timmy’s back stops and Armie’s breathing has gone deep and steady. Placing a kiss on Armie’s chest, Timmy feels as if his whole body is spilling over with love and adoration.

A little while later, when Timmy feels his own eyes slipping shut too, he says the words that he’s been dying to say out loud for weeks. The words that have been right on the tip of his tongue since yesterday. But only because Armie has been out cold for a while now, only because when Timmy whispered his name, nothing happened. Only because Timmy feels like he might explode if he doesn’t try to decompress.

“I love you,” he whispers. Holds his breath and waits. Nothing happens. Armie is still sleeping. Placing one more kiss on Armie’s chest, Timmy settles back down and closes his eyes. Adds a “so much,” just for good measure and falls asleep.

* * *

**Armie**

The first thing Armie feels when he wakes up is the heavy weight of Timmy. Timmy, who’s holding Armie tight, even in his sleep. As if he’s afraid of waking up to an empty bed again.

Closing his eyes, Armie tries to make the guilt go away before it gets too big for him to handle.

It’s clear as the day that his actions had hurt Timmy way more than Armie ever anticipated. The way Timmy had sounded frail and insecure in the kitchen had broken Armie’s heart, and he’d fled the scene before Timmy could tell by his face how much of last night Armie remembered. It had made Armie feel as if he was falling with nothing to catch him. And then—Timmy had marched into his room, his eyes wide with anger and Armie had felt a small hope. A small hope that Timmy would tell Armie what he so much needed to hear. And Timmy had done that—had told Armie not to leave him like that again, and Armie had never indented for Timmy to believe such things, but he had and the knowledge that it had affected him so much, was a huge relief to Armie.

It is the reason why Armie is here right now, with Timmy in his arms.

Letting his eyes take in Timmy’s sleeping face, Armie considers his options. He could still leave. But then—the way Timmy’s hand is fisting Armie’s shirt, the other arm thrown across Armie’s torso in an iron grip—Armie isn’t sure he can move at all. And Timmy had made him promise. Had looked as if he had been crying, and maybe—maybe there’s a reason enough to hope that what is best for Timmy includes Armie staying right here. Maybe.

Armie stays put. Lets himself enjoy the feeling of having Timmy close, of being able to kiss the top of his head and -for just a moment- act as if this is reality.

Armie doesn’t really know what reality involves anymore, because every time he thinks he knows which way to go, Timmy pulls him in the opposite direction. It’s frustrating because every time Timmy touches him, kisses him or even just looks at him, Armie feels as if he’s got everything. And then—then, Armie will think about the future and he’ll feel wobbly and unsure.

By the time Timmy starts moving around, his breathing going uneven, Armie has come to a conclusion.

He’ll talk to Timmy. He’ll ask Timmy what he wants from him, and then he’ll give him as much of that as he can. And if -shit, Armie feels shaky just thinking about this- if Timmy should indicate that Armie is more than a friend to him, more than a hookup, then Armie will tell him the truth. Because Timmy deserves to know that he’s got options. That if Timmy wants him to, Armie will tell him that he loves him every night before they fall asleep. That if Timmy wants Armie to be a fuck buddy, then Armie will do his best to be just that. And-- if Timmy wants Armie to find another place to stay, then he will do that, no questions asked.

When Timmy’s eyes blink open, Armie is already looking at him, ready to get this over with.

“You stayed,” Timmy mumbles, a small smile growing on his face. Armie doesn’t know how to answer around the lump of feelings in his throat, so he kisses Timmy instead. Holds his chin between thumb and forefinger, while softly brushing his lips against Timmy’s. When Timmy sighs and moves in for more, Armie pulls back. He can’t let this escalate.

Suddenly, all Armie wants to do is to talk. Get it over with.

“Is everything alright?” Timmy asks, eyebrows furrowing.

_No. Maybe it will be. It’s up to you._

“Why are you here?” Armie asks, his voice thick with sleep and anticipation.

“I—I live here too. And, and—do you want me to leave?” Timmy asks, already starting to pull back a little. Armie panics.

“No, no. I meant—why do keep sticking around? Why haven’t you… given up on me yet?”

“Why would I give up on you?”

“Because I’m—because I think I hurt you. Because I bring nothing but trouble for you,” Armie answers truthfully. Timmy just blinks at him; a disbelieving expression on his face.

“Is that what you think? That you’re trouble?”

Armie looks away. Nods his head. Is afraid that if he starts talking, the lump of emotions currently choking him will slip out.

“Would you believe me if I said that you’re the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time?” Timmy asks, his voice quiet. Armie shrugs. Tries to find the courage that he was so determined to showcase.

“I guess I just—like, you said that we should talk. And I think we should too because I need to know how—ugh. I need to know what this means to you,” Armie says, gesturing between them with a hand. Pushing away from Armie, Timmy sits up, his back against the wall. Armie sits up too, folding his legs in front of him.

“What do you want it to mean?” Timmy asks an apprehensive look on his face. Armie knows the feeling, is currently struggling not to pull up his guard too quickly too. So, Timmy is not going to be the one saying it. Whatever _it_ is to him anyway. But Armie knows what _it_ is to him, and he needs to get it out there before someone gets hurt even more.

Pulling in a deep breath, Armie prays to god that he’s not actually going to throw up in a minute, that’s it’s just a result of his heart beating so fast he gets lightheaded. Running a shaky hand through his hair, Armie groans. Adjusts in his seat and licks his lips. He wants so badly to reach out and feel the steadying touch of Timmy, but he isn’t sure how what he says next will go down, so he keeps his hands to himself.

Looking Timmy in the eye, Armie dives into the deep.

“I think I’m in love with you, Timmy.” _I know that I’m in love with you. Crazy about you._

And Timmy—Timmy just stares at him, eyes flickering all over Armie’s face. Armie feels dangerously close to throwing up. Scooting a little closer, Timmy speaks.

“You—uh. You think so?” he sounds just as shaky as Armie feels. Maybe a little disbelieving too.

Armie nods, his face feeling pale. “I know so.” And then, Timmy smiles. Beams like the sun on a cloudless summer day. It feels as if a gush of wind just removed all the heavy clouds from Armie’s mind, cleared the bands tightening around his chest.

Scooting even closer, Timmy laughs, and it sounds as if he’s on the verge of crying. “I love you too,” he croaks. He’s still not touching Armie, and Armie almost wishes that he was, because he needs something to ground him now. The world is spinning, bursts of warmth and bright colors going off around him.

_I love you too. I love you. Too. Timmy loves me._

“You—you love me?” Armie breathes, not able to see anything but Timmy.

“So, fucking much, you have no idea.” Armie wants to open his window and shout out in glee for all of LA to hear.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes please,” Timmy giggles, his eyes looking up at Armie in wonder. 

Reaching out a shaky hand, Armie carefully holds Timmy’s face. Looks him in the eye, and sure enough—what Armie finds looks like a perfect reflection of his own feelings.

When Timmy’s lips close over his own, Armie feels peace settle all around them. When arms circle around his shoulders, pulling them closer, Armie feels safe.

Pulling back, Timmy leans his forehead against Armie’s with a sigh. “Tell me what happened this morning.” Clenching his fingers in Timmy’s shirt, Armie tries to gather his thoughts. _Right. Talking. This was just the beginning._

“I panicked,” Armie answers.

“Was it—was it something that I did?” Timmy asks, hands running up and down Armie’s back.

“No. It’s all me. I—I guess I felt—uh, feel- like… you’re too good for me.” Pulling back to look at Armie, Timmy takes Armie’s hands in his own. “I’m not. If anything, it’s the other way around. So, you can stop thinking that, because it’s not true.”

“But how will I know? How will you ever know?” Armie wonders out loud, feeling doubt and insecurities creep up on him again. “Know what, Armie?”

“That you’re not just settling? I’m sure that you could have so much better. Someone who’s not trying to deny who they are, someone who’s experienced and whole. You could have anyone, so why me? I mean—not even my own family wants to--”

“No. Stop right there. Is that what this is about? You think that because your family are so fucked up, it means that you aren’t worth loving?” The hands holding Armie’s own tightens.

Armie shrugs. _It seems like it._

“Fuck, Armie look at me. Please, look at me,” Timmy says, letting go of his hands to cup his face. Timmy’s eyes are swimming with emotions. “I’m crazy about you, you hear me. You make me so happy you have no idea. I miss you when you aren’t next to me and when you kiss me—no when you just _look at me,_ I feel like the luckiest person in the world. Because I love you, Armie. I love you so, so much and I’ll spend the rest of my fucking life proving to you how amazing you are if you’ll let me. Will you let me?”

Armie nods his head. Opens his mouth to answer, but all that escapes is a choked-off sound. Timmy’s face is blurry from the tears swimming in his eyes and Armie almost feels like this must be a dream. A wonderful dream that is definitely reality.

“But what if—what if I can’t be everything that _you_ need?” Armie croaks.

“Baby, you already are,” Timmy says, kissing Armie on the cheeks, just beneath his eyes.

_Baby._ That one single word makes Armie’s heart expand to double size, his hands searching desperately for Timmy.

“You don’t understand. I’m not even out of the closet yet. I’m not even sure which closet to come out of. You’re the only one I’ve ever felt this way about and I’m not sure if I can—if I’ll ever be able to--” _Shit. It all really just comes down to my family, doesn’t it?_

“Armie, listen,” Timmy says, brushing shorts strands of hair out of Armie’s face, tears smearing across his cheeks. “You don’t have to know what label fits you best. Hell, you can even create your own one if you want. And you should never, _ever_ let anyone dictate when and how you come out. Not me, not anyone. That is your decision, alright? If you decide that you never want to come out, then that’s okay. If you decide that you do want to come out one day, then you do that, and I’ll be right by your side if you want me to be. And—if you come to the decision, that you don’t even want to be with me, then that’s okay too.” As Timmy finishes, his voice becomes thin, and Armie feels his heart stuttering.

“I want to be with you. I know that, for sure. I just don’t know if you want to be with me when I’m such a mess,” Armie says, seeking out Timmy’s eyes.

“We’re all a mess in some way, Armie. And I want your mess to be my mess too.”

“Does this mean that you’re—that we’re—”

“Boyfriends?” Letting go of a shaky chuckle, Armie sniffles “Yeah.”

“I’d love to be your boyfriend,” Timmy laughs, lips already brushing against Armie’s.

“God, I love you,” Armie breathes, pulling at Timmy, wanting him closer, closer, closer.

“I love you too. So, fucking much,” Timmy answers before taking Armie’s lips in his own, a groan escaping him at the same time as Armie sighs deeply.

“You do know what this means right?”

“What?” Armie asks, already dazed.

“You’ll never get to sleep alone again. I’m gonna want cuddles all night long, every night,” Timmy says, biting Armie’s bottom lip.

“Ah, fuck. I know that you’re such a little koala when you sleep.” Grabbing Timmy by his ass, Armie pulls him into his lap, hands tangling in curls. “I’m your koala.” Gasping, Timmy arches his back as Armie starts placing open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

“Mine,” Armie groans, pulling Timmy impossibly closer. “All mine.”’

“Yes, baby I’m yours,” Timmy moans, rolling his hips against Armie’s.

“Say that again.”

“Yours, I’m yours,” Timmy gasps, hands holding on tight as Armie manoeuvres them around, placing Timmy on his back. “No, the other thing,” Armie demands already descending on Timmy’s neck, nibbling at prominent collarbones.

“Baby,” Timmy breathes, hands running through Armie’s hair. “Fuck,” Armie groans, coming up for air. Then, because it sounds like honey when Timmy says it and Armie want to give him everything back, he echoes Timmy. “I love you, baby,” and the smile on his face almost hurts, but Timmy already looks completely fucked, his cheeks rosy, eyes swimming it’s hard not burst right there. “I love you too,” Timmy answers, surging up to catch Armie’s mouth in one more kiss, pulling him back down.

When Timmy rolls them over, almost making them hit the wall, Armie tenses up. Because Timmy is grinding his dick against Armie’s, hands pushing up his shirt. And Armie wants Timmy to undress them both, wants to feel Timmy’s cock against his own, but he can’t. Not yet, because this is all so new and unknown to Armie. He desperately needs to slow down.

But how is he going to tell Timmy that, without hurting him?

“Come back to me baby,” Timmy says, hands framing Armie’s face, hips no longer grinding.

“Huh?” shaking out of it, Armie looks at Timmy.

“You were slipping away for a minute. Did I go too fast?”

_How does he do that?_

“No—well, it’s just—maybe a little.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I want you to tell me these things, alright? You’re so important to me, I want to know if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable.” When Armie searches Timmy’s face, he finds nothing but patience and love.

“I just don’t want you to think that it’s because of you.”

“I know it’s not. We’re boyfriends, remember? I think we’ve established that we want each other.” Now, Timmy’s smiling, his fingers brushing mindlessly through Armie’s hair. 

“Yeah,” Armie sighs. “Boyfriends.”

Face turning serious, Timmy smooths his hands down Armie’s forehead, continuing up into his hair. “But seriously, Armie. We need to talk to each other. You can’t let me do things that you’re not comfortable with. You can’t just decide that you don’t deserve me or some bullshit, not without at least talking to me first. You have to give me a chance baby.”

Swallowing, Armie lets his hands settle on Timmy’s hips. The weight on top of him feels grounding and safe. “Sometimes I’m just so sure that the right thing to do would be to let you go.” The words linger in quietness for a minute, Timmy’s fingers drawing mindless circles, Armie zooming in on the feeling of Timmy’s heartbeat against his own.

“Maybe you should get used to thinking about this the other way around. That maybe letting me go would be the worst thing you could ever do. I would be completely lost, Armie.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Armie murmurs, tightening his hold on Timmy.

“Then promise me that I’m yours. Because I don’t want to belong to anyone else,” Timmy whispers.

“You’re mine. Always.”

“And you’re mine,” Timmy answers, kissing Armie on the mouth.

None of them are busy or hurried. They don’t have to be. They’re boyfriends now. _Boyfriends._ Armie secretly squeals on the inside with pure joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	17. The archangel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like any other lost soul, Armie is prepared to risk anything for the salvation promised to him in Timmy’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7k words about lazy-boyfriend-Sunday in bed. I mean, they (we) kind of deserve it.

The next morning, Armie wakes up feeling like he’s about to burst. The feeling of needing to pee has been consistent the whole night through, but every time Armie has woken up, Timmy has been clinging and who is Armie to get out of bed when he has _Timmy_ in it?

But now. Now, Armie can’t wait any longer. His last dream was about him not being able to find a toilet, so really, it’s a god damned miracle that he hasn’t wet the bed already. And shit, wouldn’t that be mortifying.

“Timmy,” Armie murmurs, lightly scratching his nails up and down Timmy’s naked back. Timmy grunts and buries his face further into Armie’s neck. Well _._ “ _Timmy_ ,” Armie hisses, this time pushing at Timmy’s shoulder. Nothing. Just a sigh.

Wrapping his arm around Timmy’s shoulders, Armie gathers enough strength to roll them over, making Timmy hit the wall with a soft thud. Cursing a quiet _“shit,”_ Armie waits for a split second, making sure Timmy didn’t get hurt. When Timmy doesn’t say anything, only starts moving around a little more consciously, Armie hurries out of the bed.

That, it seems, is all it takes to wake up Timmy. “Armie?” he croaks.

Looking over his shoulder, Armie sees Timmy sitting in the middle of his bed, eyes tired and curls flopping randomly over his face. Armie feels weak already.

“I really need to pee,” Armie says, hurrying back to the bed, planting a quick peck on Timmy’s lips. “Will you come back to me when you’re done?” Timmy asks, his voice still heavy with sleep. Judging by the confused, hazy look in his eyes, Armie isn’t even sure that he’s entirely awake.

“Of course,” Armie promises, already halfway out the door.

Still feeling pretty tired himself, Armie opens the lid on the toilet and takes a seat. Rubbing his eyes, he yawns and lets his face rest in the palms of his hands as he pees. It’s only now that he’s got enough mental energy to remember yesterday. When he remembers how Timmy had agreed to be his boyfriend, Armie can’t stop himself from giggling out loud. The warmth spreading in his whole body feels all-consuming and when he stands in front of the sink, washing his hands, he’s sure that the eyes looking back at him in the mirror shines brighter than they ever have.

_Timmy is mine. I’m Timmy’s._

Biting his lip, Armie squeezes his eyes shut and twirls, pumping his fists in the air. How is he supposed to survive feeling like this? It’s as if all the love and happiness taking up his whole body is just growing larger and larger, and for the first time ever, Armie feels like his body is too small. Not wanting to be away from Timmy longer than necessary, Armie dabs his hands on a towel. Walking back to the bedroom, a small skip in his steps, he tries to dry up the excess water between his fingers in his t-shirt.

Pushing the door open to his room, Armie’s knees almost give out when he finds Timmy awake, waiting for him. Closing the door, Armie takes the last couple of long strides before he’s by the bed, scooting beneath the covers.

“It’s Sunday,” Timmy says, opening his arms for Armie slip into the little spoon. “Which means I get to do this all day.” Placing slow kisses from the base of Armie’s neck and up behind his ear, Timmy makes Armie shiver, the thrill of want running through him, taking up residence in his groin.

“You might get hungry at one point,” Armie says, grabbing Timmy’s hand and pulling it up to his lips. Timmy grunts in dismissal. “I’ll survive.”

“Wouldn’t I be the worst boyfriend in the world if I let you starve?” Armie asks, turning around to face Timmy. “I don’t care,” Timmy says, already placing a trail of kisses along Armie’s jaw. Armie can feel his warm breath on his face, his nimble fingers running down his chest, stopping at his belly button where a tentative fingertip dips down before it disappears again.

“I do. I’ll get grumpy if I don’t eat,” Armie says, before rolling Timmy over, pinning him to the mattress.

“I know,” Timmy giggles. “The place between your eyebrows do this thing--” placing his finger between Armie’s eyebrows, he pushes the skin down into an exaggerated frown. “And you snap at anything and everything.” Timmy looks amused, and when Armie lets out a mock growl, surging forward Timmy giggles. The sound is so delightful, Armie does it again, this time nibbling at the skin on Timmy’s throat. “Are you saying that you enjoy getting on my nerves?” Letting his hands skim around the place where Armie knows that Timmy is most ticklish, Armie launches his attack.

“No, why would you think that?” Timmy bursts, body squirming.

“You’re insufferable,” Armie grins, not letting up.

“Stop, you’re going to make me pee!” Timmy screams, bursts of laughter slipping past his lips. 

“Then kiss me,” Armie demands, already catching Timmy’s lips in his own. His hands flatten on Timmy’s flat stomach and just like that, the mood shifts. Letting a hand slide down Timmy’s side, across his hip and around his ass, Armie grabs a handful of soft flesh, pulling Timmy’s leg up at the same time as he presses closer. “Fuck,” Timmy moans, hands grabbing at Armie’s hair. Groaning, Armie seeks out Timmy’s tongue with his own, tasting Timmy and himself, swallowing up Timmy’s whimpers and moans as he starts grinding down. When Timmy lets go of Armie’s hair just to grab at Armie’s ass, pulling him closer, Armie adjusts, making the hard lines of both of their cocks line up perfectly. “Timmy,” Armie breathes, a moan following. “You’re going to make me cum.”

“Yeah, me too,” Timmy answers, leg tightening around Armie. “Is this alright? Tell me if it’s too fast,” he continues, mouthing at Armie’s jaw. “Don’t fucking stop,” Armie says, diving down to kiss Timmy again. Grabbing the pillow beneath Timmy’s head, Armie starts sucking mindlessly at Timmy’s neck, soaking up the whimpers and moans slipping out of his boyfriend as he starts grinding harder, faster. 

When he feels the sign of his orgasm hurling closer and closer, he releases the skin on Timmy’s neck and grunts a hurried, “I’m coming,” before his cock starts pulsing in his boxers.

“Shit. You’re so fucking hot baby,” Timmy moans, hands holding onto Armie’s ass so tight, Armie’s sure there’s going to be marks later. And then, Timmy stills too, for just a second before Armie feels Timmy’s cock twitch against his own, more cum soaking their underwear. The sight of Timmy’s body seizing up and twitching beneath him, his mouth forming a perfect O as he cums in a silent scream, soaking both of their cocks in cum almost makes Armie shoot again.

Letting go of an exhausted sigh, Armie rolls off of Timmy, landing on the bed beside him.

“Shit,” Timmy gasps, hand searching for Armie’s. “Yeah?” Armie asks, out of breath and a grin on his face. “Good?”

“Good?” Timmy asks incredulously. Pushing up on the side, he looks down at Armie. “Mind-blowing. Amazing. Shit. If I didn’t love you already--” he trails off, a beaming smile on his face. “So, you’re just sticking around for my dick, Chalamet?” Armie asks, pulling Timmy down. “I don’t know. It is a pretty nice dick,” Timmy giggles, getting comfortable in the crook of Armie’s arm. “You’re not bad either,” Armie says, kissing the top of Timmy’s head.

“Wanna shower?” Timmy asks, nuzzling his nose into Armie’s chest hair.

“Yeah,” Armie breathes, suddenly very aware of the cold feeling of cum all over his groin.

“You wanna go first?”

Thinking for a moment, Armie debates the question quietly. He knows Timmy is trying not to make him uncomfortable, not to rush things. But then again… It’s not like Timmy hasn’t seen Armie’s dick already. Plus, they’ve gotten off together twice now. Maybe Armie would like to see Timmy’s dick too. Maybe Armie want to stand beneath the warm spray and be able to hold Timmy close at the same time. Like, they’ve literally just gotten off together, it could just be a nice way to start the day. Not that it hasn’t started in the best possible way anyway, but.

“Or you could just join me?” Armie says, finger drawing circles on Timmy’s arm.

“Are you sure?” Timmy asks, raising his head to look at Armie’s face.

“Yeah. Unless… unless you’d rather not, then that’s totally cool,” Armie hurries, feeling stupid for a second for not having considered that maybe _Timmy_ is the one not being ready.

“You’re being silly,” Timmy says, kissing Armie quickly on the lips. “Come on, I’m getting cold.” And then, Timmy rolls out of the bed, holding out his hand towards Armie.

“Always cold,” Armie murmurs, following Timmy.

“I know, we’re a perfect match,” Timmy answers, fingers twisting into Armie’s.

Right then, Armie thinks, _yeah. We’re perfect. This feels perfectly right, perfectly good._

God, he hopes they’re right.

* * *

Standing up in full height with nothing to hide behind, no sheets, no dimmed lights, no closed eyes and kisses while about to get naked in front of Timmy, turns out not to be as easy as Armie had thought. He’s desperate to pull off his itchy boxers, but at the same time, he can’t quite find the courage to just do it. Standing by the door, hands in front of his soaked crotch, Armie feels awkward and insecure. And it’s not lost on him why, either.

He’s never been naked like this in front of anyone. Never showed his dick to anyone (expect that one time with Annabelle and Armie would rather _not_ think about that right now.)

He’s never been completely naked in front of another man before, and suddenly, Armie feels wrong for feeling wrong. It’s ridiculous. Timmy is his boyfriend now. They just rubbed their dicks together. He was the one telling Timmy to join him, knowing very well that that would lead to them getting naked together. But now—now Armie can’t even make himself pull off his t-shirt, let alone look at Timmy. And he’s not even naked yet. Fuck.

Turning on the shower, Timmy steps back and turns towards Armie, a smile on his face. That smile instantly falters as he takes in Armie’s posture, the panicked look in his eyes. Then, a soft smile reappears on Timmy’s face as he steps up to Armie. “Hi,” Timmy says, his voice quiet. Carefully taking Armie’s hands in his own, Timmy brings both of them to his lips.

“Think you can help me with something?” he asks, peering up at Armie.

Armie nods. Wonders what Timmy needs help with, what he’s doing.

Placing Armie’s hands on his chest, Timmy lets his arms fall down by his side. “Undress me?” he asks, looking softly at Armie. Clearing his throat, Armie licks his lips.

_Yeah. I can undress him._

Letting his hands run down Timmy’s chest, Armie takes hold of the bottom of his t-shirt. Lifts it up slowly, waiting for Timmy to raise his arms before pulling it off completely, letting it fall to the floor. Letting his arms fall back down, Timmy doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even touch Armie and Armie appreciates it. Appreciates how Timmy seems to know what he feels without even asking, how he seems to know that Armie needs to take this one step at a time. Loves Timmy for doing all the difficult stuff first, letting Armie watch before he follows.

Placing trembling hands on Timmy’s hips, Armie looks him in the eye. Searches for reassurance that he can’t do wrong and when he finds it in Timmy’s smile, the way his eyes are open and trusting, Armie puts his thumbs beneath the waistband. Starts pushing them down slowly, until Timmy’s cock is free. Sinking down, Armie lets his hands slide down Timmy’s legs. Feels the hairs there, and for a second Armie is surprised by how masculine Timmy’s legs are.

It fits perfectly though, makes perfect sense. Because Timmy seems to have descended from another world where fairytales and mythical creatures are made. Timmy, who sees right through Armie, as if he’s somehow in perfect sync with Armie’s deepest thoughts and needs. Timmy, who is light and soft and delicate one moment, just to morph into something strong, defiant and fearless the next. Like some sort of archangel. 

As Armie looks up at the person that claims to love him, he can’t help but feel a little unnerved.

There he is. The embodiment of temptation and redemption. Standing above Armie, hands by his sides, curls framing his inhumanly beautiful face like some sort of messiah. And he’s offering himself up for Armie. For _Armie._ Suddenly, Armie understands why hundreds of millions of people wander across the earth to chant and pray. He would do the same for Timmy in a heartbeat. Will devote his whole life to worshipping him.

Swallowing, Armie stands back up. Blinks a couple of times and steps closer to Timmy.

Then, he raises his arms above his head, just like Timmy had done for him. When Timmy pulls Armie’s shirt off, Armie still feels vulnerable, but not because of the missing clothing. No, because no matter how many layers he had on right now, Timmy would still make him feel this vulnerable and it feels like teetering on the edge of the abyss - look down and you’ll be in free fall. But like any other lost soul, Armie is prepared to risk anything for the salvation promised to him in Timmy’s eyes.

Before he knows it, Timmy is kneeling in front of him. Placing at steadying hand on his shoulder, Armie steps out of his soiled boxers.

Before he knows it-- Armie is following Timmy into the steamy shower, nakedness completely forgotten.

When Timmy steps closer, Armie gathers him in his arms and holds him tight. Closes his eyes and kisses Timmy’s forehead, his temple, the top of his hair. As warm water pours over them, washing their earlier desperation and burning desires away, Armie feels a serene calm take over his mind and body.

Like some sort of life-altering revelation, Armie realizes something.

The fact that he is a man, that Timmy is a man, doesn’t matter. That fact has nothing to do with anything other than basic reproductive purposes. No, what matters is the fact that Armie has found the other part of his soul. The person who’s supposed to make him whole. The one who’s supposed to make everything else make sense. All this time, he’s been so caught up with the fact that Timmy’s a man too, that he hasn’t even realized that—that Timmy is his other half. That Armie was made for Timmy and Timmy was made for Armie, and fighting it was a futile attempt at fighting the universe all along.

Tilting Timmy’s face towards his own, Armie looks him the eye. Says the only thing he can right now, and it’s frustratingly inadequate, but it’s his only immediate way of showing Timmy his gratitude. “I love you.”

Leaning into Armie’s hand, Timmy’s eyes flutter shut, and he smiles. “I love you,” he echoes, and Armie can feel all of his doubts of not being able to love another man properly seep out of him, swirling up, up, up until they evaporate, leaving behind peace and assurance. No one will ever be able to love his Timmy more than him.

When Timmy reaches for his shampoo, Armie stops him. “Can I?” he asks, taking a hold of the shampoo bottle. Squeezing out a substance that smells like Timmy’s curls into his hand, Armie lathers up Timmy’s hair. He wants to touch him everywhere.

Softly massaging Timmy’s scalp, fingers disappearing into bubbling suds and silky dark strands, Armie takes pride in the way Timmy’s shoulders sag. “Feels amazing,” Timmy sighs, leaning into Armie’s front. Leaning down, Armie places a quick kiss on Timmy’s shoulder. Does it again when goosebumps arise, and again when Timmy lets out a satisfied woosh of air.

When all of Timmy’s hair has been lathered up and rubbed long enough for Armie’s fingers to go pruny, Armie steps back, shamelessly drinking in Timmy’s body as he stands under the spray, eyes closed. Watching soap and water trickle down Timmy’s body, touching him in all the places Armie is going to kiss later, Armie doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s half-hard again. It doesn’t matter. It never did.

* * *

They make breakfast. Not because Timmy didn’t do his best at convincing Armie to go back to bed, because he did. Armie can still feel the proof tingling on his lips. No, they make breakfast because Armie is starving and it feels vital to get some solid food into his system with the way Timmy constantly leaves him dizzy, his stomach swimming. And watching Timmy roll up the sleeves of Armie’s hoodie because they keep falling over his hands, Armie doesn’t regret a thing. Watching Timmy in his clothes feels like claiming something you don’t ever want to share.

“Will you show me how to make grilled cheese?” Armie asks, opening the fridge.

“The depends,” Timmy says leaning against the counter next to Armie.

“On?”

“Can’t we just have cereal? It’s so much easier and faster,” Timmy whines.

Picking up a loaf of bread, cheese and butter, Armie closes the fridge. Puts the ingredients on the counter and steps up to Timmy, trapping him with both arms on either side of his body. “Listen, baby. If you want me to spend the day in bed with you, you gotta let me get some fuel first.” Then, he places a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Timmy’s neck and steps back.

He’s got no idea where that sudden burst of confidence just came from. Judging by the way Timmy’s head falls back tough, eyes rolling backwards, Armie thinks he did something right. 

So, Timmy takes a seat on the counter next to the stove and tells Armie what to do. His naked legs dangling, Armie’s hoodie falling down mid-thigh. Armie feels dizzy. At some point, Armie needs something from the cupboard above Timmy, so he steps in between his legs, leaning up. Wrapping his legs around Armie’s torso, Timmy looks smug as hell. “Got you,” he says, leaning in. “Timmy,” Armie warns, already quitting the fight he had no intention of putting up in the first place anyway. It’s not until they hear a door open down the hallway that they break apart and Armie all but saves their breakfast.

“Morning,” Michelle says, making a straight beeline for the coffee, barely looking at Timmy and Armie. “Good morning,” they answer, almost in complete unison. Armie is sure his own voice is way raspier than Timmy’s cheery one. _That little shit._

Busying himself with their cheesy toasts, Armie acts as if he didn’t just shove his tongue down Timmy’s throat. They should probably talk about what they’re going to tell her. If they’re going to tell her.

_Will she mind? What if she disapproves and kicks me out? Timmy is only seventeen, and I’m—no. It doesn’t matter. She won’t mind. She’s a decent, good person. She wouldn’t._

Before Armie can spiral any further, Michelle is walking out the door, travel mug in hand. “I’ll be home tonight. See you boys!” she calls, the front door closing a minute later.

Timmy is by his side in seconds. “Stop that,” he says, pulling Armie’s hand away from his mouth. He hadn’t even realized that he was biting his nails. “Sorry.”

“No. None of that. Tell me instead, as we agreed.”

_As we agreed. Because we’re in a relationship and relationships are teamwork. You hurt yourself and you hurt him too._

“What are we going to tell her?” Armie asks, trying to keep still.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that. Do you even want to tell her?”

“I- I don’t know. I guess she should know. I mean, we live together. What if she finds out by accident? But I’ve never—not to anyone. And what if she doesn’t approve?”

“First of all, she’s not going to disapprove of you being gay, Armie. She already knows about me and to tell you the truth, all she was concerned about was whether I knew how to practice safe sex. And I told you already, who you’re coming out to is no one’s business but your own.”

“But what if—what if she doesn’t want me to be with you? You’re her nephew, and I’m just… I’m just--” _a strange kid. Trouble. A mess._

“No, baby. You’re not just anything. You’re everything. Don’t worry about those things, alright? If you want her to know, then we tell her. Or I can tell her alone. It’s all up to you,” Timmy shrugs, ruffling up Armie’s hair as if trying to shake out all of his doubts.

“Would you really do that? I mean, tell her. Alone?” Armie asks, chewing his bottom lip.

“Haven’t you realized by now?” Timmy asks, grabbing their plates. “I’d do anything for you.”

And then he walks out of the kitchen Armie’s heart and breakfast in hand.

They eat on the balcony, the Californian autumn sun warming up their faces. As soon as Armie has taken a seat opposite of Timmy, Timmy is up again though. “Where are you going?”

“I’m cold,” Timmy says, disappearing back inside, just to reappear with a blanket wrapped around him. “It’s 27 degrees,” Armie laughs.

“27 degrees are like, not warm at all,” Timmy says, freeing his arms from the blanket in order to grab his food. “How did you ever survive up north?” Armie muses, digging in too.

“Lots of layers,” Timmy grins, crumbs already gathering at the corner of his mouth.

“Babe,” Armie says, not being able to resist this time. He’s got no reason to. “Hold still.”

Reaching across, the table, Armie brush his thumb over Timmy’s mouth. When he leans back, Timmy is pouting. “I thought I was getting kisses.”

“You sound as if I’m denying you them,” Armie chuckles, taking one more bite. “It’s the same thing,” Timmy grumbles, taking a sip of coffee. Laughing, Armie stands from his seat, reaches for Timmy’s surprised face and plants a loud, smacking kiss right on his mouth. “There. No more complaining.”

“Thank you,” Timmy smiles, his eyes lighting up.

This time, when Timmy stands up and walks to the railing of the balcony, cigarette in hand, Armie gets up too. Gathers Timmy in his arms and pulls them back a little. “Hey,” Timmy objects but not putting up a fight. “You’re making me nauseous when you do that,” Armie says, placing small kisses at the nape of Timmy’s neck. He’s so warm and soft. “What? You don’t like heights?”

“No. They’re dangerous. I’d rather you stay right here, with me.” Then, he leans towards Timmy’s cigarette. Putting it to Armie’s mouth, Timmy’s eyes zoom in on the point of contact, where his own fingers touch Armie’s lips. “Can we go back to bed?” Timmy asks, taking one last drag before killing the cigarette.

Without answering, Armie squats down, taking a strong hold of Timmy and pulls him up, carrying him inside over his shoulder. Timmy squeals in surprise, hands clutching Armie’s shirt. Placing his hand on Timmy’s ass, Armie squeezes. This is the best day in a long fucking time. “Excuse me, sir, did you just grab my ass?” Timmy laughs.

“I couldn’t help myself. It’s such a fine ass,” Armie says, kicking the door to Timmy’s room open. “I thought I told you, you have to--” Lowering them both on Timmy’s bed, Armie looks at Timmy, a mock exasperated look on his face as he cuts him off. “Timmy. Baby, can I please grab your ass?”

“You can always grab my ass,” Timmy grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Grunting, Armie rolls him over, untangling him from the blanket so that he’s got free access to Timmy.

Pushing up his own hoodie, Timmy’s boxer clad ass comes into view. Feeling himself getting hard again, his mouth-watering, Armie grabs a handful of each cheek. “Can I kiss it too?”

“You can do anything you want,” Timmy breaths, his breath hitching when Armie bends down, placing a kiss right above the waistband of Timmy’s boxers. “That’s not my ass,” Timmy points out.

Humming, Armie takes hold of the waistband and yanks them down. Freeing Timmy’s legs, Armie crawls back up again, kissing Timmy right beneath a cheek.

“What about now?”

Timmy shakes his head. “No.”

Kissing the place at the top of Timmy’s ass, right where the cheeks divide, Armie tries again, his voice getting husky. “Now?”

Timmy hesitates. Turns his head to look back at Armie. “No.” Pausing for a moment, Armie moves down a little further, this time kissing right on the inside of a cheek. “Here?” Timmy looks dazed and anticipating at the same time. “No.”

Licking his lips, Armie pulls a little at Timmy’s ass, spreading his pale cheeks. Then, because nothing but Timmy matters, Armie leans in again, placing a slow kiss right next to Timmy’s hole. His heart is racing, his cock straining against his own boxers. Fuck, he never knew a man could look like this. So sensitive and delicious. Is it wrong that all he wants to do is lean in and taste it? Does that make him fucked up?

“Armie—you don’t have to,” Timmy breathes, and Armie can hear by the strain in his voice that no, he doesn’t have to. But if he did, he’d make them both feel good. If he did, he’d probably be able to make Timmy mewl and whimper again. “I want to try,” he says. “Please?”

“Fuck,” Timmy groans, pressing his face into the mattress. “Fuck yes.” Placing one more tentative kiss on Timmy’s hole, just to gather the last bit of courage, Armie licks his tongue against the pink taint. It tastes like soap, Timmy and a hint of musk. Armie does it again, this time a little slower. It draws the most delicious sound from Timmy and Armie feels proud. Flattens his tongue in the next stroke and breaths through his nose. When Timmy starts squirming, Armie places a hand on the small of his back, keeping him still. “So good, so good,” Timmy whimpers. Armie hums. Gathers enough spit in his mouth to make Timmy’s hole a little more wet, before he leans down again, lapping at his boyfriend’s hole. When he starts circling his tongue, Timmy’s hips jerk, his hand reaching desperately for Armie’s head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers, fingers burying in Armie’s hair.

Feeling thrilled and aroused, Armie points his tongue into a sharp tip, tentatively pushing it against the tight ring of muscles. “Armie—Armie, I want to, I wanna--” Armie pulls back, hands still gripping soft cheeks. “What? Is it bad? Should I--”

Rolling onto his back, Timmy pushes up, reaching for Armie. “No, fuck no. It feels amazing baby,” and then, Timmy does the thing that Armie had never thought anyone would ever want to do. He kisses Armie, mouth open, tongue roaming. It does nothing to calm down Armie’s aching cock. Pulling back, Timmy looks completely fucked. “I wanna taste you too before I cum. If you want me to, of course. Please don’t feel pressured--”

_Timmy wants to—with me. He wants to do it to me. Fuck._

For a split second, Armie doesn’t think he can do it. What if—what if Timmy won't like it? He’s absolutely sure that he won’t look the same as Timmy, that he probably won’t taste the same either. What if Timmy ends up being disgusted by him? 

“Are you… are you sure?” Armie asks, feeling conflicted. Doing it to Timmy is amazing and the sounds Timmy just made, the look in his eyes right now—Armie wants the same.

“There’s nothing I want more right now. I’ll take it slow, yeah?”

Armie nods, feeling a little shaky with anticipation and nerves. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Thank you,” Timmy sighs, licking into Armie’s mouth again. And then, he gets up, pushing Armie down on the bed. “Can I?” he asks, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Armie’s boxers, waiting for an affirmative nod. 

When Armie rolls onto his stomach, he squeezes the pillow beneath him so tight his knuckles turn white. His shoulders are tense, his breathing shallow. When he feels Timmy’s hands on him, carefully brushing up and down his sides, his ass, Armie tries to relax, but he doesn’t succeed. “Just relax,” Timmy whispers, coming up to kiss Armie between his shoulder blades. Armie gives a curt hum as answer. Lowering himself onto Armie’s back, Timmy snakes his arms to Armie’s front, taking hold of his clenching hands. “Baby,” he whispers, running his nose along with Armie’s ear. “There’s not a part of your body that I don’t want. None. I worship you, no matter what.”

“How can you be so sure?” Armie asks, letting the weight of Timmy ground him. “Because it’s you, and I’m stupidly in love with you. Plus, we just showered, remember? How was it when you did it to me? Good or bad?”

“Good. Really good,” Armie answers, hoping that Timmy won’t notice the blush covering his face. “Exactly, and you’re going to be the same, I promise you. But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” Timmy murmurs, cheek coming to rest against Armie’s. “Do you think—do you think we can try? Just a little,” Armie asks, feeling his stomach tighten with curiosity.

_I really, really want to try._

“Anything you want.” Then, Timmy kisses Armie’s cheek and pushes off of him. Armie barely registers Timmy’s hands on him, doesn’t even get to be nervous again before lips press against the small of his back, trailing down, down, down, until Timmy stops, right above what he assumes must be his own pucker. “You’re so beautiful, Armie. So perfect for me,” Timmy says. And then—then, he does it. He kisses Armie, right on his hole. It’s not tentative or apprehensive. No, it’s a confident, assuring steady press of lips. Armie moans, a tingling feeling spreading to his stomach, running down to his balls. _Fuck._ “More,” he pleads.

Timmy gives him more. More kisses, more tongue. At one point, Armie feels a steady drizzle of something cold and slick, right before the pad of Timmy’s thumb presses against his hole, rubbing what Armie supposes must be saliva around. “Fuuuuck baby,” Timmy groans, before he leans back down and starts lapping hungrily at Armie.

Feeling lightheaded and hot and oh so close, Armie reaches behind him, finding Timmy’s shoulder and clamps down his fingers. “Fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.”

“Don’t. Not yet, not yet,” Timmy pleads, pulling back. Armie whimpers at the loss. He wants more.

“Turn around for me,” Timmy says, guiding Armie onto his back. It takes off some of the pressure on his hard, leaking cock but nothing that will hinder him from coming if Timmy as much as touches him one more time. Which is exactly what he does next.

Taking hold of the base of Armie’s cock, Timmy leans in close, eyes dark with lust, tongue already peeking out. But then, he stops. Looks up at Armie, his face flushed, lips swollen. “Can I suck you off?” he asks, hand tightening on Armie’s cock. Armie is barely able to gather enough brain function to think about the question. The only thing he can think about, is Timmy’s tongue, his mouth. “Yes, yes please,” Armie pleads, pushing up on his elbows. He needs to see this.

Eyes lighting up, Timmy leans in. First, he licks at the head, tongue tracing the slit where pre-come oozes out. Closing his eyes, Timmy moans before he just opens his mouth as wide as possible, swallowing what must be about half the length of Armie’s cock. The sensation that explodes in Armie’s balls, the warm heat around his cock spreading to his whole body, makes Armie drop his head backwards, a moan of “ _fuuuuuck_ ” streaming out of him.

It’s over embarrassingly fast. But who the hell can blame him? It’s his first blowjob, and Timmy’s red mouth wrapped around his thick cock makes Armie see stars. Reaching down, Armie takes hold of Timmy’s hair, trying to warn him. “Timmy, I’m- I’m--” but Timmy just pushes down further, his tongue rubbing against the spot right beneath the head. It makes Armie shoot down his throat so hard he almost blacks out. Almost, because he keeps his eyes open and watches as Timmy’s eyes fall shut. Watches, as Timmy starts coming at seemingly the same time as Armie’s hand tightened in his hair, come hitting the back of his throat.

“Shit,” Armie breathes, a small laugh escaping. Grabbing Timmy by the arms, he pulls him up, holding him against his chest. His heart is beating violently, his breathing coming out in hard puffs. _Holy shit._

* * *

True to Timmy’s wishes, they stay in bed for the rest of the day. Armie doesn’t want to be anywhere else anyway. It’s a blissful alternation between making out, taking naps and exploring each other’s bodies.

At one point, Armie finds an oval-shaped, light pink scar on Timmy’s arm. Tracing it with the tip of his finger, he’s just about to ask what had happened, when Timmy speaks.

“When I was little, I had this lamp sitting on my wall in my play corner. My parents had just changed the bulb and by accident put in a halogen one. The thing with halogen bulbs is, they get burning hot when they’ve been on for some time. So, when I reached up my arm and accidentally put it against the burning bulb the skin just instantly melted away. I don’t think my mom ever forgave herself for that.” When Timmy chuckles at the end, Armie thinks it means that Timmy has forgiven her a long time ago. The look in his eyes though reminds Armie of painful nostalgia.

“You miss her,” Armie states, still brushing the scarred skin on Timmy’s arm. It’s not like he needs to ask. It’s written in bold all over Timmy’s face. Seemingly snapping out of memory, Timmy’s eyes come back into focus. “Yeah. All the time,” Timmy says, smiling softly at Armie. “Right now, I mostly just wish that you could meet them.”

Right then, Armie swears he feels Timmy’s pain too. Can almost taste the grieve when he thinks about the people, he was supposed to meet but will never be able to get to know. Nearly feels like crying when he realizes that he’ll never be able to sit down and talk with the people that brought his favourite person into the world. And it is a loss for him too, he supposes. Just in a different way than what Timmy must be feeling right now. God, Armie wishes he could bring them back. Bring them back and tell Timmy, “look who’s here baby.”

But he can’t. And it’s frustrating to love someone as much as Armie loves Timmy, and not be able to give them what they want the most. To be inadequate and helpless.

“Maybe… maybe you can take me to their place one day? I mean, it wouldn’t be the same, but it would be close,” Armie says, already wanting to take it back. Who says Timmy will ever want to bring Armie back to New York, let alone bring him to his parent’s gravesite? Who even says Timmy wants to go there himself? Feeling stupid, Armie retrieves his hand and looks down, hiding from Timmy as best as he can.

“Would you really want that?” Timmy asks. He sounds hopeful, surprised even.

“I mean… yeah.” Armie shrugs, picking at a loose thread in one of the sheets. When Timmy doesn’t answer and Armie looks back up at him, he’s met with glossy eyes. “Hey--” reaching out a hand, Armie brushes his thumb beneath Timmy’s eye. Shaking his head and chuckling, Timmy dries his eyes in the sleeve of Armie’s hoodie. “Thank you,” he chokes, a genuine smile forming on his face. Pulling Timmy close, Armie rearranges their position so that Timmy’s head is resting on his chest. “Anything for you baby.”

Hours later, when Armie feels like his lips are raw from kissing (he can’t even imagine what Timmy’s must feel like,) a question pop into his head. “What is your favourite place to be in the whole world?” Looking thoughtful for a second, Timmy leans up and pecks Armie on the lips before saying, “New York and your arms.” Armie snorts, affection clear when he answers, “you’re such a romantic,” squeezing Timmy closer for a second.

“What’s wrong with being romantic?” Timmy asks, jokingly twisting Armie’s nipple between two fingers. “No- Aaah! – nothing,” Armie laughs, pushing Timmy and curious fingers out of reach. “You’ll just have to get used to it.”

Brushing a curtain of hair back from Timmy’s face with the palm of his hand, Armie takes in Timmy’s sparkling eyes. “I’ll be happy to.” Grinning, Timmy climbs on top of Armie, hair flopping back down. “Now who’s the romantic one?”

“Oh, that’s still you,” Armie answers, hands brushing up and down Timmy’s back.

Later, when Timmy’s room has gone dark and they’ve opened the window -because Armie gets hot when there’s two of them- and Timmy has buried himself beneath sheets and hoodie’s, cuddled up to Armie, Armie feels heavy and light all at once. The weight of Timmy and blankets makes him feel grounded, the events of the day making him feel like could fly.

He can’t believe that he gets to have this. To have Timmy in his arms, to be able to kiss him and touch him whenever he wants. To love him and know that it’s wanted and accepted. Can’t believe that all of his fears were wrong. Because he is able to love Timmy the right way. And he feels faithful and certain when he imagines a future with Timmy—a future where this is how he falls asleep every night. Where every Sunday is spent showering together in the morning, napping in the afternoon. A future where home is a safe place to be.

Running the tip of his finger down Timmy’s nose, Armie feels like he’s choking on emotions.

“I love you,” he whispers, hoping that Timmy will catch the words and hide them away before they fizzle into the dark of the night. They’re meant for no one but him.

Timmy answers instantly. “I love you too.”

Carefully sampling the words together with the feeling of Timmy’s legs intertwined with his own, Armie adds them to his Timmy-alter.

Just as Armie’s eyes have fallen shut, his body feeling heavier than ever, Timmy speaks again. “Will you take me to see Archie tomorrow?”

It makes Armie smile, the memory of Timmy and the puppy still very much present in his mind. “Of course,” he mumbles, rolling to the side to spoon Timmy. Placing a kiss in the middle of his curls, Armie closes his eyes, letting sleep spread its heavy blanket over him.

* * *

Monday morning ends up being a hurried affair of coffee poured into travel mugs and granola bars stuffed into Timmy’s backpack before both of them all but run out the door. Not because they overslept, but because Armie had hit snooze seven times in a row until Timmy had pressed the stop-button, falling back onto his pillow again. “We should get up,” Armie had mumbled, Timmy’s lips muffling the words halfway into the sentence. “Shh,” Timmy had answered, before he had crawled on top of Armie, making them forget about time and classes for the next twenty minutes.

Standing by his locker in between classes, feeling hungry and dishevelled, Armie can’t even bring himself to care. Not as long as Timmy stands next to him as he does right now, leaning against the lockers. He’s currently talking about something drama related but Armie can’t concentrate on the words. He’s trying to stuff his bag into his locker while people are rushing past them. Just as he succeeds, Armie can feel someone coming up behind him. “Hey Nick,” Timmy says, his voice cheery. “Hey,” Nick answers, nodding at Timmy. Putting his hand around Armie’s arm, Nick looks at Armie. “Armie, can I talk to you?”

“Yeah. What’s up?” Armie asks, closing his locker. Nick pulls at Armie’s arm, clearly just trying to make him follow. “It’ll be just a minute.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming--” Starting to follow Nick, Armie stops when Timmy speaks. “Ba-Armie?” Turning around, Armie takes a step closer. Has already reached his hand halfway towards Timmy, when he remembers where they are. Awkwardly pulling his hand back, Armie stops in his tracks.

_I can’t. Not here._

The look that crosses Timmy’s face, makes Armie feel terrible. The knowledge that Timmy would probably like a kiss, or even just a caress right now, gives Armie a bad taste in his mouth. Because he knows that Timmy will never ask this of him, will never expect Armie to bring their relationship out of their rooms. He knows that because Timmy always puts Armie first, and Armie doesn’t trust himself or the rest of the world enough to show Timmy the respect of loving him in public. Eyes boring into Timmy’s Armie tries with all of his might to communicate what he feels.

_I’m sorry baby. I want to, I really, really do. I just can’t._

“I’ll see you in class,” Timmy says, his mouth curving up at the corner. Armie isn’t sure how whole-hearted that was. “Yeah,” he answers, swallowing hard. Then, he turns back around and follows Nick.

Nick, who as it turns out, is just a curious bastard who could’ve literally just asked his question in front of the both of them. “I’ve been dying to ask you what the hell happened Friday night,” Nick loud whispers, pushing himself and Armie into a corner in the hallway. 

_Friday. Friday, Friday, Friday--- oh!_

Feeling a blush creep up his face, Armie remembers what happened Friday. They really hadn’t been subtle, had they. “Yeah, about that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“So? You just fucking jumped each other and then took off. Tell me. You owe me, after what you did to my poor mom’s furniture,” Nick says, a shit-eating grin taking over his face.

“We didn’t—oh shut up it wasn’t that bad,” Armie says, nudging Nick in the ribs.

“It wasn’t? I’m kinda disappointed.”

Hiding his face in his hands, Armie groans. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tries not to look like a lovestruck teenager. Tries to play it cool as if he isn’t about to tell his best friend that he’s gained a boyfriend over the weekend. “Do you promise to keep this to yourself? Like—don’t even tell Henry about it,” Armie asks, trying to look serious. “Was it that good? Oh, it totally was, I can see it on your face already!” Nick snickers, his eyes round with curiosity.

“Nick,” Armie insists, eyes pleading. “Alright, alright I promise. Top secret and everything, I know.”

“Alright, so here’s the deal,” Armie says, trying to keep his voice down. Rolling his lips and breathing deep, he tries to keep his face under control too. “He has sort of becomw my boyfriend?” and it sounds like a question, but it really is not. It’s the one thing that Armie is one hundred per cent sure of.

“No. Way. Are you serious?” Nick asks incredulously, face lighting up like fireworks. Armie nods, a nervous chuckle escaping his mouth. It feels pretty fucking amazing telling someone about it. As if it makes it even more real. Then, Nick pulls Armie into a hug, squeezing so tight Armie can feel it in his lungs. “I’m so fucking happy for you. Holy shit. This is amazing,” Nick says, still keeping Armie close. His voice sounds tight, and when Armie succeeds in pulling back, Nick’s eyes are swimming. “Man, are you crying? You really that worried about my love life?” Armie asks, trying to make light of the whole thing. He’s got no right to speak with the internal freaking out he’s been doing himself. “Shut up dude, I’m just so fucking relieved and happy for you guys,” Nick laughs, aggressively wiping at his eyes.

Feeling his heart swell, Armie squeezes Nick’s arm. “Thank you. It—it means a lot. Like, I… I don’t think it would’ve ever happened if it wasn’t for you, to be honest.” And it’s the truth. If Nick hadn’t been there to show Armie that being gay isn’t dangerous or wrong, but really just about love, then Armie wouldn’t have been where he is today. Timmy wouldn’t have been his boyfriend and suddenly, Armie feels like he owes Nick the world.

“Oh man, you’ve got to shut up,” Nick chuckles, wiping at his face again. “So, Friday night?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. It makes Armie snort and shove at Nick and just like that, they’re back to normal. “You’re too sensitive for that shit. I’m not telling you.” The sound of protest coming from Nick makes Armie cackle even louder.

When they reach the classroom and Nick spots Timmy, he walks right up to him. Drops his backpack to the floor and pulls Timmy into a hug much like the one he’d just given Armie. Coming to a stop right behind Nick, Armie can just barely hear when Nick mumbles a heartfelt “thank you” to Timmy. Looking confused, Timmy hugs Nick back. “What for?”

“For being everything, he needs,” Nick answers, and then he pulls back, grabs his backpack and takes a seat. Timmy’s eyes are round with surprise when he looks at Armie, a perplexed look on his face. Armie shrugs, smiling back at him and sits down next to him. Leans over close enough to whisper into Timmy’s ear, “you make me happy.”

The blush colouring Timmy’s face says it all, and the guilt Armie felt earlier disappears. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	18. You can have it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I really want to kiss you right now,” Timmy says, shuffling on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who's been reading and commenting and giving kudos -thank you! I've been through a little rough patch with this one where nothing felt right or good, but then I read all of your amazing comments and I the motivation came back. Honestly, I don't think I could've done it without all of you guys ❤️

**Timmy**

It’s a cold November morning when Timmy wakes up, already feeling his stomach tightening with the prospect of what day it is. November 23rd - a Monday. A good day to begin things, Michelle had said. Timmy thinks that’s exactly what makes Monday’s so awful.

Curling around Armie’s sleeping body, Timmy tells himself to stop whining. If anyone should be feeling wound up today, it’s Armie. Timmy can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like, to be the main witness in a prosecution against your own father.

Sometimes, Timmy regrets what he did, all those weeks ago. Sometimes, he’ll look at Armie, and he’ll feel the need to flee to the next room, close the door and hide from what he has done. At times, Timmy feels like he’s even more eager to get this over with than Armie is. And maybe that’s exactly because of what he did. Timmy desperately needs to know what will happen— he needs closure. Needs to be sure that what he did won’t bring even more harm to Armie. Because what if everything fails, what if the judge is an asshole, what if the jury is somewhat biased? What if Michelle miscalculated this Michael Stuhlbarg? Just the thought of Armie’s father walking away from this, the thought of Armie being screwed over once again by people who are supposed to protect him, makes a sour taste appear in Timmy’s mouth.

Timmy can’t be one of those people… but what if he is? What if he essentially started something that will fuck Armie up even more?

Screwing his eyes shut, Timmy focuses on his breathing. _It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine._

Armie knows that Timmy never tried to hurt him. At least… he thinks so.

Suddenly feeling a desperate need to make sure that Armie knows, Timmy turns towards Armie.

“Armie— baby,” Timmy says. His voice is stuck in his throat from sleep. He clears it. “Armie,” he tries again. Running his hand up and down Armie’s arm in deliberate, firm strokes, Timmy waits for Armie’s eyes to flutter open. “Baby, wake up. I need you to wake up—” if Timmy didn’t feel so desperate, so on edge, he would no doubt feel bad for pulling Armie out of oblivion like this. Placing his hand on Armie’s cheek, Timmy starts stroking his thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

As Armie starts stirring, Timmy alternates between brushing through his hair and caressing his face. “Hm?” Armie groans, hazy blue eyes finally opening, a small smile appearing on his face as usual when he sees Timmy in the morning.

“I’ll always protect you, no matter what. You know that, right?” Timmy says. Armie _needs_ to know this. “Mhmph… ur sweet…” Armie mumbles, pulling Timmy close to bury his face in his neck.

“No, seriously. Armie, I mean it. Tell me that you know,” Timmy insists, pulling back to look at Armie, his face serious. Looking up at Timmy, eyes flickering over his face, Armie looks serious too. “I know. You’ve got me, always. And I’ve got you.”

“Always?” Timmy asks, holding up his pinky. “Always,” Armie promises, hooking his pinky around Timmy’s. When Timmy burrows into Armie, Armie is the one to pull back, an apprehensive look on his face. “Hey— what has brought up all this?”

“Nothing. Just— I need you to know. Especially… especially today.”

“It’s just a meeting, Timmy. Really, it’s actually just a conversation. You don’t have to worry,” Armie says, running a hand through Timmy’s hair.

And Timmy— Timmy knows by now that the smile on Armie’s face isn’t as genuine as he tries to make it out to be. Timmy knows that Armie didn’t fall asleep last night until late, that he’s been more restless during the night than he usually is. Timmy knows that Armie has spent the last week staring at an empty document, eyes far away, hands fidgeting. Timmy knows, thank god, that Armie’s patience for the past week has been a symptom of today's meeting.

“I needed you to know anyway,” Timmy says, kissing Armie on the forehead.

_I need you to know, that when you’re in there, and the questions make you want to run far away, that I’m here. I need you to know, that no matter what happens, my arms will never let you go. That I’ll stand between you and anyone who tries to hurt you again. Even though you don’t want to admit that you’re scared, I want you to know that I know._

“It’ll be over before I know it,” Armie says. Timmy is sure it was meant to calm him down, but it sounds more like this is something Armie has been telling himself for some time. “You’re right, it will, and when you’re done, I’ll—”

“—You’ll be waiting right outside,” Armie finishes, this time smiling at Timmy for real.

They kiss each other goodbye in Armie’s room before Timmy grabs his bicycle helmet and goes to school.

Armie had told him to take the car, which, Timmy had been a bit surprised. But Timmy had already felt jittery when Armie had handed him the keys. “ _It’s cold and dark outside. I don’t want you to get run over by some idiot,_ ” Armie had said, the wrinkles on his forehead telling Timmy that this was a real concern of Armie’s. “ _I’ll be careful. Plus, I think that by starting that old lady of yours I’m putting mother earth at a bigger risk than I am myself— look, I even got lights on my helmet,_ ” Timmy had said, pushing a small button that made his helmet light up, back and front. “ _You’re such a climate nut,_ ” Armie had grumbled, putting the keys away. “ _I love you,_ ” Timmy had mumbled, lips pressed against Armie’s. “ _Mhm, love you too._ ”

Riding his bicycle to school had been a wise decision, the fresh air and exertion helping Timmy keep a clear mind through most of the first class. When the classroom clears out, Timmy seeks out Nick. Nick’s eyes land on his at the same time as Timmy’s sees him, and Timmy thanks the heavens that he’s got Nick today.

“So, today is the day,” Nick says, sidling up to Timmy as they start leaving the room.“It is,” Timmy sighs. “How is he? Nervous?”

“More than he wants to admit. He’s been on edge for a whole week,” Timmy says, remembering how Armie had zoned out multiple times during breakfast this morning.

“But it’s not like he’s going to be at the actual court yet, right?” Nick asks, shouldering past a group of freshmen blocking half the hallway. “No. Today is just… I can’t remember what Michelle called it, but he’s just going to talk to that Stuhlbarg guy. Tell him what happened— but I feel like that’s almost as bad as going to court, you know. Mostly because—” coming to a stop beneath a staircase, Timmy faces Nick. “He’s never really talked about it. At least— I don’t think so. I mean, he talks to me, but not… not in detail. And I’m afraid of what his reaction might be,” Timmy says, feeling his stomach tighten up in hard knots again. He’s been praying for days now that Armie’s lawyer won’t be too hard, too insensitive. He’s aware that Armie needs to tell him what has happened in order for his father to pay for what he did, but Timmy wishes that Armie wouldn’t have to go through the whole thing again. 

“Don’t you think… I don’t know, don’t you think that if this Stuhlbarg is as good as they say, that he’s got it? Didn’t your aunt say that he’s had a lot of these cases before? He gotta be used to it by now,” Nick says, clearly trying to console Timmy.

Timmy has already thought about this, has already tried to make himself feel better with this knowledge. But he still can’t help but feel like it’s not enough. Like— even if this Stuhlbarg is a seasoned DA, he’s still not anywhere near an expert in _Armie._ And even though Timmy might not be either, he can’t help but feel like he knows him better than most people. Timmy is aware that he’s being slightly overprotective, but he likes to think that he’s become good at handling Armie’s demons too.

“It’ll be fine, Timmy. When is he done?” Nick asks his brown eyes kind and calming. “Two pm.,” Timmy answers automatically. He knows this by heart because he promised Armie to be there.

“And he wrote down what happened?” Timmy nods. “He did.”

“And how did he handle that?”

Stuffing his hands further into his pockets, Timmy sighs. “At first he didn’t really write anything. Just sad there, staring at the screen. But then— then, he started writing, and every time I checked on him, he just had this… this look on his face. As if he weren’t there. Almost as if he had detached himself from the whole thing, as if… I don’t know. He was calm, though.”

Swallowing, Timmy remembers how Armie had been typing away furiously, until he’d smacked the laptop closed and gotten up from his seat, removing himself in one sudden motion.

Timmy had been sitting on the bed, pretending to be reading a book. When Armie had slumped down on the bed, his back facing Timmy, Timmy had carefully put the book away. Slowly, as if not to startle Armie, Timmy had scooted down on the bed, until he was spooning him, one arm holding Armie tight. They had been like that for a long time, until Armie had gotten up, carrying on as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, and it had taken about two days for his eyes to come fully back to life. It had taken two days for his voice not to sound flat anymore, two days where his kisses were short, his hands limp. Every time Timmy would ask something, he’d do it in a quiet, tentative voice, and when Armie’s answers were distraught and off, Timmy would take a deep breath and remember that this had nothing to do with _them_.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” Nick says, the corners of his mouth pointing up quickly before the smile is gone again. Timmy agrees. Reminds himself that the worst is yet to come, that he needs to save some energy for when it’s really needed.

* * *

Timmy ends up having lunch with Saoirse. They’ve got drama next period, and the thought of having lunch with the guys, as usual, makes Timmy uneasy. They’ll no doubt ask where Armie is, and Timmy is afraid that his face will betray him. Better leave that to Nick.

Picking at his tuna sandwich, Timmy sucks the tip of his thumb clean and checks the time. It’ll still be a couple of hours before he needs to get on his bike.

“Earth to Timmy,” Saoirse says, waving a hand in front of him. “What? Sorry,” Timmy mumbles, snapping out of it. “Where did your boyfriend go?” She asks, sucking noisily from a straw.

Feeling his nerves doing a jump, Timmy looks at Saoirse. They hadn’t told anyone— well, except for Nick. But not anyone else. Mostly for the sake of Armie.

“Wha-? who?” Timmy asks, trying to put on his most oblivious expression. “Armie,” Saoirse deadpans, her eyes telling Timmy not to give her any bullshit. “You’re really not supposed to know this,” Timmy says, shooting her a stern look.

“So, I’m right?” Saoirse grins. “Stop that, you know you are,” Timmy grumbles.

“Why are you so grumpy about it? You don’t like him or something?” Saoirse asks, poking Timmy in the thigh with a shoe.

“Of course I like him. I _love_ him, and that’s exactly why I’m grumpy. No one is supposed to know about it.” _Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have shit go down at school too?_

_“Wait._ Do you _love_ him? Oooh! Have you told him? _”_ Saoirse asks excitedly. “Yes, I’ve told him. And if you tell _anyone_ about this, I’m gonna have to kill you. I mean it, Sersh.”

“Of course I’m not telling anyone, don’t worry. But you might want to play down the romance a bit— how do you think I figured it out, to begin with?”

“Is it really that bad?” Timmy groans. He had hoped that they were doing alright, but he gets it.

“It is. But hey— it’s clear that he loves you too, you know.”

“I know,” Timmy says, feeling his cheeks heat up, a smile taking over.

“How is he? Treating you alright?”

“Oh my god, Sersh. He’s the best, like, he makes so happy. I don’t think— I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time, if ever.”

Leaning over, Saoirse pulls Timmy into a hug. “Congratulations, Timo. I’m happy that you’re happy.”

The rest of the lunch break is spent with Timmy gushing about Armie, Saoirse nodding and laughing at how ridiculously in love Timmy sounds. Timmy knows he’s being gross, that Saoirse most likely don’t care that much, but this is the first time he’s been able to ramble about his boyfriend. He knows he can talk to Nick about Armie, but he feels weird just thinking about talking to Nick about Armie’s eyes, how good he is at kissing.

* * *

When the time on his phone says one thirty pm., Timmy straps his helmet on and gets on his bike. The ride downtown takes him five minutes less than usual, and when he locks his bike up in front of the huge intimidating building, Timmy feels sweaty. Both from the exertion and nerves on behalf of Armie. Walking through the doors and entering the lobby, Timmy takes a seat in the corner of a couch. Armie should be done in five minutes.

Feeling restless, Timmy stops himself from bouncing his knees about three times, pulls his thumb out of his mouth two times and checks the time nearly a hundred before he sees Armie.

Standing abruptly, Timmy clutches the helmet in his hands, as he watches Armie exit an elevator. Behind him is Michelle, and a man Timmy doesn’t recognise. He’s about the same height as Timmy, greying hair and a soft roundness that already makes Timmy like him better. Maybe that’s the Stuhlbarg guy.

Staying rooted, Timmy searches Armie’s face for any signs of distress. It’s difficult to see from the distance between them, but when Armie looks up and meets Timmy’s eyes, a smile starts blooming instantly.

_Thank God. He’s still with me._

“Armie,” Timmy breathes when he’s close enough. It makes Michelle stop in the middle of a sentence, looking from the man to Timmy, a surprised look on her face. “Timmy? Why are you here?” She asks.

“I uhm—” _well, maybe it’s about time we tell her._

_“_ He wanted to make sure that I’m alright, _”_ Armie says, still looking at Timmy.

“Yeah,” Timmy agrees, feeling warm all over by the intensity in Armie’s gaze.

“Well, that was nice of you,” Michelle says.

“I think we’re done here too,” the man says, smiling at Armie.

“Yes. Uhm— thank you,” Armie says, and Timmy can see in the way Armie’s shoulders aren’t tense, that the meeting wasn’t a disaster. He almost feels himself relax. Almost.

“Anytime you need _anything,_ you have my number. Now, until next time— remember what I said. This, what we’re doing now, is moving forward. Alright?” Michael says, grabbing Armie’s hand in a firm shake, eyes seeking affirmation that Armie gets it.

“Yes. I’ll remember— thank you,” Armie says, his hand looking just as firm. Timmy feels a swell of pride bloom in his chest.

They part ways - Michelle saying that she’ll try and be home in time for dinner, Michael waving with a relaxed hand. And then, they’re off, Timmy’s bike in the bed of Armie’s car.

All the way home, Timmy feels as if he might explode. The anticipation and nerves have been raking through him all day, and yet, he can’t bring himself to ask. Not yet. He’ll give Armie some time— just in case he needs it. Just in case he’s only millimetres away from shying into a shell again. Timmy needs him to stay out this time. Armie doesn’t volunteer any information either.

Back at the apartment, Armie kicks off his shoes before he heads straight for the living room where he falls down onto the couch with a sigh.

Feeling slightly out of his depths, Timmy hovers by the doorway, shifting on his feet. Turning on the TV, Armie gets comfortable. As Timmy still debates what to say, Armie looks at him, a puzzled look on his face. “Are you alright?” He asks.

Feeling like his face might very well mirror the puzzled look on Armie’s face, Timmy opens his mouth, no words coming out. “I— can I have a hug, maybe?” He ends up asking. If Armie chooses to keep a mental barrier between them right now, Timmy would like for them to at least be physically close. “Of course,” Armie answers, already opening his arms.

Straddling him, Timmy gets comfortable with his chest against Armie’s, their arms holding each other. The effect is immediate, Timmy deflating completely against Armie. “I’ve been worried,” he mumbles, nose pressed against Armie’s throat to breathe in the comforting smell.

“Baby,” Armie murmurs, lips pressing against the shell of Timmy’s ear. “It went good. Stuhlbarg is nice, and I feel like I can trust him. Does that make you feel better?”

When a hand starts brushing through his curls, Timmy sighs and closes his eyes. “It does,” he answers. He wants to know more. Wants to know what they talked about, how it made Armie feel. He wants to know how much Armie is hiding right now. How much he’s distancing himself from. And it feels wrong, Timmy thinks. To be the one being held— to be the one who’s being comforted. But then, come to think of it— maybe this is comforting for Armie too. Maybe Armie needs to feel strong and in control right now. In that case, Timmy will gladly stay where he is.

When Armie starts talking though, Timmy stiffens. 

“I told him everything. From the first time, he yanked my hair to the last time when I thought I was going to die. I told him that my mother has known the whole time, that she never stopped it. I told him about the time when I was about eight and she told me that gays deserve all of gods wrath. I told him that, when I had asked her how God could be angry if he was good, my father had slapped me across my face. Did you know that? God, they’re mad,” Armie says, and when he chuckles at the end, Timmy feels his breathing stop for a moment. Breathing through his nose, he stares blindly out the window from where he’s cradled against Armie chest. Armie’s chest, where Armie’s still brushing through his curls as if the person who just said those things aren’t the same as the one who’s holding Timmy right now.

Timmy feels scared. Not scared for himself, he never would. Not in the arms of Armie. No, he feels scared for Armie. Because his voice is cold and detached again, and Timmy wonders if he was the one who made him slip again.

Swallowing down his fear, Timmy starts to reason with himself. He couldn’t possibly have pushed Armie over the edge, he’d barely said anything. No… there must be another reason.

When flashbacks of Armie dropping his keys by his car, wincing as he bends down, Armie clinging desperately to Timmy, Armie crying because his ankle is broken flashes before Timmy’s eyes, he understands.

That day had been the only time with any real reaction from Armie. It had been the only time where he’d acted like Timmy would expect for someone who’d been through the same as Armie.

Is it possible, that Armie had been in chock that day, and that maybe he was just beginning to actually react now?

Pulling back carefully, Timmy scans Armie’s face. There’s no trace of humour anywhere and his eyes are far away, his mouth pulled in a tight line. Placing his hands on Armie’s chest, Timmy feels for his heartbeat. When he finds it, it’s steady and relatively calm.

“Baby,” he says, carefully placing the palm of his hand on Armie’s cheek. “Look at me.” When Armie looks Timmy in the eyes, Timmy smile reassuringly. “I didn’t know, but it sounds awful. I think you’ve been very strong, and I think that what you’ve been through has been very traumatising.”

When Armie just nods, Timmy finds comfort in the fact that Armie’s still leaning against his hand, that he’s still keeping eye contact. “You’ve been through a lot,” Timmy repeats, watching Armie’s eyes flicker. Swallowing, Timmy continues. “You’ve been so strong, Armie.” When Armie sighs a trembling breath, the corner’s of his mouth pulls into an even tighter grimace and his eyes flutter, Timmy leans back down and hugs Armie tight. “You remember now, don’t you? It’s all coming back to you” He says, squeezing Armie various places, trying to make him feel his body. Armie nods, a pained sound escaping his throat.

Timmy doesn’t succeed in pulling Armie out of his shell again that day. He accepts it though, with a heavy heart and the hope that this is all just part of a process. That Timmy will be able to pull him through this one himself. He can’t stand the thought of involving even more strangers in this right now. He wants to protect Armie himself.

Michelle does get home relatively early, and when Timmy hears the front door shut closed, he tells Armie that he’ll be right back. Meets Michelle in the hallway and tells her that Armie’s sleeping, that they already had dinner. Armie isn’t sleeping, he’s staring blankly at a book, so Timmy thinks the sleeping-apology isn’t that far from the truth.

Michelle looks at him as if she wants to ask as if she knows that the normal thing would be to say “how is he?” But she doesn’t.

Timmy, on the other hand, debates heavily if he should just tell her one of the easier truths. That Armie is in his bed, in his underwear. That Armie has slept in Timmy’s bed for weeks, that they’re not just friends or roommates. He almost does, because it’s one of those things that is piling up and it would be so easy to get rid of just one stress factor. He doesn’t tell her though. Thinks about all the times he has made decisions regarding Armie without telling him first, and immediately regrets even considering it. They’re a team, now.

He ends up smiling at Michelle, hoping that she’ll understand that he has forgiven her for falling short in her abilities to express feelings. Tells her good night and goes back to his room, where Armie is still staring mindlessly at his book.

Timmy gets into bed, takes the book from Armie and kisses him on the cheek. “Cuddle me?” He asks and hopes that it’ll make Armie feel better as much as it will calm himself. “Are you alright?” Armie asks, for the second time that day while he holds Timmy close. “Yeah. Are you alright?” Timmy echoes, figuring that sometimes people give what they most need back themselves.

Armie shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, voice still void of feeling. Nothing like the sobbing and panicking Timmy saw the first time. “That’s alright,” Timmy says, placing his hand on top of Armie’s.

“I love you. We’re never leaving each other, are we?” Armie asks suddenly, his voice much more desperate than it has been all day. It startles Timmy, who turns in Armie’s embrace. “Never,” he answers fiercely. “Never in a million years. I’m yours.”

“Thank you,” Armie answers, his shoulders slumping a little again. “Try and get some sleep, baby,” Timmy says, brushing his knuckles against Armie’s cheekbone.

Timmy has barely slipped into unconsciousness when he’s startled awake again. Next to him, Armie is trashing in his sleep, broken sobs and whimpers reverberate throughout the otherwise silent room. “Shit,” Timmy curses, reaching out for Armie. “Armie, hey, hey.”

When Armie doesn’t calm down, Timmy turns on the lamp standing next to his bed, casting the room a glow that lights up Armie’s face. It’s wet with tears, scrunched up in a pained expression that matches the sounds breaking out of him. “Armie, baby, it’s alright, I’m here,” Timmy calls, rubbing his hand up and down Armie’s back, his arms.

When Armie still doesn’t wake up, Timmy panics a little. He’s always been told not wake up people who are in the middle of a nightmare, but he can’t for the love of god remember why, and he can’t stand just sitting here, doing nothing. Plus, he’s afraid that it’ll wake up Michelle, who will no doubt figure out that Armie is in Timmy’s bed. He can’t handle that situation right in the middle of the night when Armie is clearly in pain.

His first impulse is to grab Armie and shake him until he wakes up. But then— the likelihood of Armie’s nightmare being about exactly that - someone grabbing him- is pretty big. So, Timmy leans down lines up their bodies, careful not to hold down Armie. Framing his face with his hands, Timmy starts brushing away the tears, shushing him like a mother who’s got an upset child.

“Armie… Armie…” he calls softly,thumbs brushing Armie’s cheekbones. “Shhh,” he shushes, kissing him on the forehead, the tip of his nose. “Come on. Wake up baby, come back to me,” he whispers, feeling Armie’s body calm down.

When Armie does wake up, it’s with a gasp, his wide eyes searching the room wildly before they’re even focused. “Hey,” Timmy says. “It’s was just a dream. Just a dream, and I’m here. You’re safe.” Eyes focusing on Timmy, Armie starts crying again. Crying and repeating Timmy’s name as he clings to him.

As Timmy lies there, holding Armie, he feels relieved. “There you are,” Timmy murmurs, kissing Armie’s forehead as he rubs him on the back. _There you are._

Feeling his own eyes tear up, Timmy realises how worried he’d actually been by Armie’s cold reaction earlier. Realises that he’d much rather have Armie sobbing in his arms than have him walk around like a zombie. He’s got a feeling that now, they at least have something to work with.

“I’ve got you,” Timmy repeats, squeezing Armie closer.

* * *

**Armie**

Armie wakes up feeling like he was run over by a bulldozer. Timmy’s already awake, staring at the ceiling, his eyes tired. Armie immediately feels bad. He kept him awake with his dreams, and now Timmy is going to suffer from the lack of sleep too.

“Morning,” Timmy says, a soft smile on his face.

_I don’t deserve him. God must’ve confused me with someone else because I don’t feel worthy of his kindness, his love._

_“_ Morning, _”_ Armie rasps back. Leaning across the pillows, he presses his lips to Timmy’s.

“How are you feeling?” Timmy asks, brushing his nose against Armie’s.

_Maybe you should stop involving God in this._

“Sore and thirsty. But uhm… otherwise, better than yesterday.”

_Better than having everything run through my head while helplessly being forced to look at it. Better than feeling locked up in my own body, watching you try to reach me. Better than not being able to stop it._

“Yeah? Not like… you were gone for quite some time,” Timmy says, his face looking worried, just like yesterday. “I’m not anymore. I’m here, it’s… it’s better. I think it helped a lot that you were, uhm, that you kept talking to me. That you didn’t ask me questions,” Armie says, trying to explain to Timmy how if he hadn’t been there, Armie would’ve been lost for real.

“Good,” Timmy says, pulling Armie close. “I’ve been thinking, though. I know that this is your decision to make, and I’m not forcing you to anything, alright? And I want you to know that if you’re not ready, then I’ll still be here. I won’t leave you, alright? It’s not an ultimatum.” 

Feeling alarmed despite Timmy’s reassurance, Armie pushes up on an elbow, looking Timmy in the eye. “What is it?”

Brushing his knuckles softly against Armie’s cheek, Timmy looks serious when he says, “I think we— you, might need help. You’ve been disassociating pretty badly a couple of times now. And each time… each time I get more and more worried that you won’t come back to me.”

Armie knows this. Knows that it’s bad, that with the whole trial thing not even having started for real yet, that he’s bound to get worse.He’d rather not talk about it with anyone but Timmy, though -Michael Stuhlbarg when it’s necessary, but otherwise… the prospect of telling a stranger, who’s an expert in these things is scary. Because what if something’s wrong with him? Like, besides the obvious. What if he’s screwed up in ways that can’t be blamed on his parents?

“I don’t want to see you hurting, Armie.” The look in Timmy’s eyes makes Armie’s heart twist and pull together in a painful spasm.

_You’re hurting him._

“Alright,” Armie says, swallowing.

“Alright?” Timmy asks, his voice surprised, the lines on his forehead smoothing out a little.

“I’ll… I’ll get help.” _If you promise not to leave me. If you won’t suddenly realise that I’m beyond messed up, more messed up than you already know._

“That’s… thank you. Armie, I- I’m really proud of you. Thank you,” Timmy says, a smile making its way onto his face.

_I’d do anything for you._

* * *

With Timmy walking right beside him, their hands purposely brushing every now and then, Armie makes his way down the hallway that leads to the school therapist’s office.

His stomach is heavy with nerves and his hands are sweaty. If Timmy weren’t right behind him, he’d turn around and walk away. Would’ve talked himself out of this before he even got the idea, no doubt having convinced himself that things aren’t _that_ bad. But the things is— he knows they are. And just the thought of keeping Timmy up at night, of breaking his heart because of something that Armie have could be avoided, that’s just too much. He can’t do that.

So, he makes it all the way to the door. Turns to Timmy and smiles a grateful but nervous smile.

“I can still go with you if you want me to,” Timmy says, the tip of his finger brushing the back of Armie’s hand. “No, it’s alright. I— I think it’s best if I go in alone. But thanks,” he says.

“Alright. I’ll just wait out here?” Timmy asks, hooking his pinky around Armie’s. It settles Armie immediately.“Yeah. It probably won’t be long,” Armie says, squeezing their pinkies.

When the door closes behind him, and the therapist looks up, Armie instantly remembers how he had felt that day, at the principal's office. How he had simultaneously wanted to hunt Timmy down and never see him again. And now— now, Timmy is waiting for him right outside the door, just like he had that day. Timmy’s got his back, Armie realises. He’s got it for good.

_He’s been right there from day one. I’m the luckiest person in the world._

The therapist is not surprised to see him. Armie’s got a feeling that she’s more surprised that it took him this long to show up but of course, she doesn’t say that. Instead, she asks him what made him show up. What has happened, since he’s here- essentially, what has gotten worse.

He starts out by telling her that his boyfriend told him to come. It’s the first time he comes out to anyone beside Timmy and Nick, and he’s almost disappointed when she doesn’t even blink. She just asks him why he thinks his boyfriend told him to come, and Armie tells her about the episode the day before.

When she asks him if _he_ thinks it’s necessary to be here at all, Armie takes his time to answer. He’s not sure what the right answer is— what she wants to hear. He’s worried that if he says the wrong thing, she’ll tell him that she can’t help him, that he’s not ready or that he’s just… too messed up to be helped.

“Yes,” he says, swallowing. “I think— my boyfriend is right. I did, uh— disappear yesterday. I don’t know why, though. But it was scary because it felt like I was back… like, back at the places and times when he would- uhm. Hit me, you know. And I couldn’t— I could see and hear just fine, but I felt like I was in another world, and Timmy -my boyfriend- it’s just… I know it might not be a good enough reason to be here, but it hurt him. I could see it in his eyes, and when I tried to become normal, to make him happy again, I couldn’t and- and I don’t want to go back. I want to be with him,” Armie finishes, feeling his mouth drying up, his whole body vibrating.

When the therapist smiles at him and leans back in her chair, Armie feels a small hope that maybe he didn’t fuck up already.

“The reason I’m asking you this, Armie, is because we need to establish where your motivation comes from. Now, a lot of times we’re told that we shouldn’t change ourself because of other people. While that might be true in some cases, I don’t think that’s the universal truth. Your boyfriend— Timmy, you sound like he’s important to you. Am I right?”

Armie nods instantly, feeling a small smile begin at the corner of his mouth. “Very,” he says.

“How long have you known each other?” She asks, and she looks truly interested, so when Armie answers “a couple of months,” he feels the vibrations in his body calm down a little. “That’s nice. I can see that he makes you happy.”

“He does,” Armie says, looking down at his hands. “He’s uhm… I’m sorry if this sounds silly or something, but ever since I met him, things have changed. I feel like- like I’ve got a purpose to pull through. Not that I’m suicidal or anything-” Armie hurries, suddenly realising how that must’ve sounded. “But he makes it easier to smile, and he’s made me realise a lot of things, has shown me that it’s okay to be… me. He makes things easier. But… I think I see him as this bright, warm light in the darkness, and- and I’m scared that—” feeling a shudder run through his body, Armie rubs his face. Bites the inside of his cheek and swallows down a lump. “— sometimes I’m scared that I’m the darkness that will put out his light. So I want— I want to be better. For him. For _us._ That’s why I need your help.”

Feeling a teardrop slip through, Armie suddenly feels light with realisation. This is exactly what he fears the most. That he’s so ruined that he’ll ruin everything and everyone around him. And maybe that’s why he agreed to do this. Because he’s already seeing pictures of him and Timmy fighting, of him not being able to be there for Timmy when Timmy needs it.

Handing Armie a tissue, the therapist folds her hands on the table in front of her. Looks at Armie curiously and asks, “do you think of yourself as darkness, Armie?”

Sniffing, Armie looks away and shrugs. “Sometimes I feel like the darkest person in the world.”

“Okay. Armie, do think… do you think that a dark person, a bad person, would be sitting here right now?” The therapist asks, her face curious.

Armie shrugs again. Shakes his head hesitantly.

“Do you think a bad person would seek mental aid because they want to be better for someone they love?” This time, Armie shakes his head more convincingly.

“Can I tell you what I think?” The therapist asks.

“Yeah,” Armie says, wiping at his face.

“I think this darkness you’re talking about— it’s something that we’ve all got. I’ve got it, Timmy’s got it, the whole school’s got it. It’s part of being human. I also think that you’re going through a major trauma which has knocked you completely off your feet. So what I think is happening, is that everything is tumbling down around you right now. It makes everything feel big and scary, and that’s completely normal, expected even. But you have to remember, that it can’t turn off Timmy’s brightness. It can’t, alright?”

“Are you sure?” Armie whispers, feeling very unsure himself.

“I’m sure. In fact, I’ve got a feeling that you’re keeping it alive. From what you’re telling me and the simple fact that you're even here, I’m pretty sure that there’s a lot of brightness inside you too. You’re a good person, Armie. All the way through. Otherwise, you wouldn’t take this step. Give yourself some credit,” she says, her eyes kind, a glimmer in them that makes Armie smile too.

“I’m going to help you, alright? And until next time, I want you to do this; every time the darkness shows up, every time you feel like it’s going to eat you up, just flip it off,” she smiles, and Armie can’t help but chuckle in surprise. “Yeah, just give it a big, fat middle finger and tell it to bugger off. You’ve got more important stuff to deal with, don’t you? Tell it that’s it’s unwelcome, that you can’t be bothered. Kiss your boyfriend and screw the darkness. It doesn’t define you, and you’re certainly not depending on it. In fact, it’s depending on the attention you grant it. The less attention you pay it, the smaller it will get. So, until next time; the darkness can get lost.”

When Armie enters the hallway again, he’s smiling as he wipes off the remaining of his tears.

“How did it go?” Timmy asks, pushing off the wall. His face changes from worried to confused when Armie laughs again, a smile on his face. “Good,” he says, barely stopping himself from embracing Timmy right in the middle of the school. “She’s really nice. I think… I think she’s going to help me get better, I can already feel it. Thank you for making me go.” The smile that breaks out on Timmy’s face is worth everything. It’s worth the ache in Armie’s stomach from before he went in, it’s worth the nerves from telling the truth, it’s worth the tears.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Timmy says, shuffling on his feet.

_Someday— someday baby, when everything is a little better, I promise I’ll try. I promise I’ll get better at that too, and we can kiss whenever and wherever. Someday._

“Come on then,” Armie says, turning on his heel as he heads towards the toilets. Pushing Timmy inside a stall, Armie locks the door behind them. Then, he pushes Timmy against the wall as he frames his face, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Timmy’s lips. “Someday, Timmy, I promise,” he says, pushing himself up against Timmy. “I know,” Timmy mumbles, before he licks along the roof of Armie’s mouth, making Armie sigh, his cock stirring. “I want everything with you,” he says, pulling back to look at Timmy. “You can have it all,” Timmy answers easily, his body pliant in Armie’s hands.

Maybe it’s the high of the conversation with the therapist, the relief of being told that he’s a good, healthy person. Maybe it’s the high of simply being with Timmy, but right then and there, Armie feels sure of one thing. He wants to give Timmy more, no, he wants to give him everything, so when he bends down and whispers “will you fuck me tonight?” In Timmy’s ear, Armie feels more certain than he has since they agreed to be boyfriends.

“Are you sure?” Timmy asks, his expression apprehensive but the glint in his eyes giving his excitement away. “One hundred per cent,” Armie answers, looking adoringly at Timmy.

“Alright,” Timmy breathes. Licks his lips and leans back in. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	19. Tell me how you feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it too much? I can-” Timmy licks his lips nervously, “-I can turn on more lights, or just, turn them off completely— wait, do you still want to? I mean, to uhm- to do it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how what this is but I do know that I feel like it's not exactly as good as I'd like it to be, so. Here-- take it 😬
> 
> Oh, btw, next chapter is going to be longer. Hopefully better too haha, but I just felt like this one needed to be on its own and, yeah- I'll leave you to read now.

Staring at the last line of his Spanish homework, Armie sighs heavily before he closes the textbook and drops it back into his backpack. He knows that he could probably do better than this, but he simply can’t concentrate anymore. With every other word his eyes have been scanning over for the past hour, Armie’s mind has slipped to what he asked Timmy for earlier today.

“ _Will you fuck me tonight?_ ” Armie can barely believe that he had the guts to just ask like that- straight up with no stuttering or blushing before spitting out the words _fuck me._

Right now, he wishes that he had planned it better. Or that he had like, a plan in the first place.

Timmy had agreed to fuck him. Then, they had finished school, gone home and then split up, into each of their rooms. Armie had insisted- said he had Spanish homework, to which Timmy had answered something along the lines of “ _what— the ones we’ve had one and a half week to finish?_ ” And Armie had groaned in affirmative. Timmy, of course, had finished his own a long time ago.

Because Timmy doesn’t have the extra load of pressing charges against his own father. Timmy doesn’t need to deal with extra bullshit, but for some reason, he wants to deal with Armie’s bullshit voluntarily. But- Armie isn’t going slack for the rest of high school, so when Timmy had offered to help Armie with the exact same homework as he’d just finished himself, Armie had declined. Had told Timmy that he needed to do it himself, in order to be good. Besides, Armie had needed some space, some time alone.

Some time where he could come up with a plan- a plan that won’t make his first time a horrible, embarrassing memory.

Now, his homework is finished but he’s got no plan. At all. Like, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do with himself right now. For a minute, he wonders if he could just kiss Timmy like he usually does, and then simply hope that Timmy will somehow get them the rest of the way. But he’s not sure that Timmy would particularly like that- like, who wants to fuck someone who’s being all passive and fumbling? _Ugh._

He’s almost sure that that would end up even more awkward than if he took action and ended up doing something stupid. Something wrong.

He almost wishes that he’d at least fucked a girl before. Right now, it almost seems easy- like some sort of warm-up, a rough outline of how sex in itself works. But then again, Armie can’t imagine that. Can’t imagine getting hard by boobs and pussies. Not that he thinks girls are gross- he doesn’t. He has seen lots of straight porn, lots of close-ups of wet labia and soft curves, boobs bouncing around, being grabbed by big hands. He has never been repulsed by it, never thought that they didn’t look objectively nice, but his cock has never been interested. If he is, to be honest with himself, the best thing about the boobs has probably been when they’ve had a hard cocked glide between them.

And the pussies— they're usually spread wide open by hard cocks, and if not, it’s probably because they’re dripping with cum already. To be honest, the best porn he’s seen was probably a video of a girl who was fucked in the ass while another one fucked her mouth. When Armie had cum so hard that he almost blacked out, he had told himself that it was because of the sounds she made, the way her lips and hole looked so stretched.

Pictures of hard cocks with glistening slits had haunted him for weeks every time he took a shower, every time he slid a hand into his pyjama bottoms.

So no, Armie can’t imagine fucking a girl. He’s not even sure it would help him much in this case anyway. He just can’t imagine it being remotely the same, because first of all, he has asked Timmy to fuck _him_ , not the other way around. Second of all, there won’t be any pussies or boobs… thank god. There’ll be two cocks, Armie’s hole and Timmy. Timmy, who has tried all of this already. _Fuck._

_I don’t even know how to get it inside. All the videos— they always just slide right in. Maybe it’s just not any different?_

Tapping the edge of the desk nervously, Armie rests his face in the palm of his hand and tries to think rationally.

_How do I know that it won’t be— fuck, that it won’t be messy? Shit, that would so horrifying. How do people do this? Well, maybe the body is just made like that - like, it knows when it’s having sex and somehow can’t… can't. Oh my fucking god._

Giving his laptop a quick glance, Armie shakes his head. He can’t just type out “ _how to fuck in the ass without making a mess_.” He’s afraid that even the incognito function won’t be bulletproof enough for that. Not that anyone ever comes near his search history. The only other person who sometimes uses the thing is… Timmy.

_Oh, my fucking fuck fuck._

Armie almost feels like banging his head against the desk. Or just go to bed, come up with an excuse about having fallen asleep, should Timmy ask.

 _Alright, think. So, there’s a risk of it becoming a real shit situation. Ugh, bad choice of words— oh, come on. What to do first? Maybe— maybe I should just go to the toilet first. Yeah, just be sure. And then a shower. Yes, a shower is good. Even though… how the fuck do I clean myself down there_ _?_

Standing from his chair with a frustrated groan, Armie heads to the bathroom. Goes around his business, all the while hiding his face in his hands while he waits and waits, wanting to be absolutely _sure._

Then, he leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor and turns on the water. Doing his very best performance of procrastination so far, Armie takes his time with his shampoo, suddenly feeling like it’s _very_ important to be thorough with his roots. Then, he moves on to the conditioner, even spending extra time washing his face. Lathers up his whole body, all the way from behind his ears, to his bellybutton which he spends way too much time on, be he moves on to his feet.

First, he washes the sole of one foot, even scrubs the place between his toes. Then, he moves on to the next. When he almost slips from having soap underneath his one standing foot, he sighs and accepts that the time has come.

He starts out with his dick. He knows that one. Moves on to his balls, until his hand almost touches the place that leads to his hole.

_Come on. You’ve washed your own ass before, stop being ridiculous._

Squeezing out an extra dollop of soap, Armie reaches behind himself. Lets the flat palm of his hand slide between the cheeks a couple of times. Leaning his face against the cool tile, Armie regrets for a second that he didn’t search Google for some answers.

_Just do it. If anything gross happens, you can just close your eyes, wash your hand and act like it never happened._

Holding his breath, Armie presses the pad of his index finger against the tight ring of muscle.

_Timmy has literally had his tongue further up your ass than this. Come on._

Remembering how nice it had felt to have Timmy’s wet, warm mouth surrounding his hole, Armie pushes the finger inside. He reaches the first joint before he stops. It feels like a bit much, to be honest, but it doesn’t hurt. He pushes further inside, this time tentatively wiggling it around a bit. It still doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel particularly nice either. Nothing like Timmy’s mouth and tongue.

Pulling out his finger, Armie squeezes his eyes shut when that feeling— that feeling of doing something horribly embarrassing occurs, and despite not wanting to know, Armie looks. His finger is just as clean as before he pushed it inside.

_Maybe it’s true- maybe God didn’t create men to be homosexuals._

Straightening up, Armie stares down at the wet tile before him. Thinks about how it feels to make Timmy moan and cum. How it feels to wake up next to him. How beautiful he is.

Giving the darkness that sounds an awful lot like his mother’s voice the biggest mental middle-finger he can imagine, Armie pushes his finger back inside his hole.

 _Fuck. Off._ He adds.

As he dries off, Armie’s mind is a whirlwind of doubts about what to do next. How does he start things? Does he just walk into Timmy’s room and ask him to fuck him? _No._ Should he just try and initiate things without saying anything, hoping Timmy will catch on? _Maybe._

Then, it occurs to Armie that Timmy might’ve forgotten about the whole thing. Maybe he’s sleeping, maybe he’s busy— maybe he doesn’t want to do it right now. Or, like— ever. Maybe he’d just agreed earlier to make Armie feel better.

 _He wouldn’t do that to me,_ Armie reminds himself. _Timmy’s better than that._

He ends up putting on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, heavily debating whether to put on boxers or not, before he snatches them from the drawer, putting them on. He doesn’t want to seem presumptuous. Or worse, like he knows what he’s doing.

He doesn’t knock on Timmy’s door, even though he suddenly feels like he should. Feels like he should’ve asked Timmy on a date weeks earlier, should’ve given him flowers and kissed him on the cheek. He should’ve been so much more gentle with him.

It’s too late now. Here he is, outside of his door. Barely fifteen minutes have passed since he cleaned his ass for him. Hours after he asked Timmy to fuck him. Tonight. What has he gotten himself into? Right now, Armie feels as if no matter what he does next, it’s going to be the wrong thing.

Opening the door quietly, Armie steps inside Timmy’s room. Sitting in the middle of the bed is Timmy. The screen of the phone in his hand lights up his face, his curls. They’re fuzzy and wild in a way that tells Armie that he’s not the only who’s showered recently.

The big lights in the room have been turned off, the only light now coming from the string lights above the bed and two candles standing on the floor, next to Timmy’s treasure box and unfinished books. And- oh. Standing on top of the pile of books, is a bottle of lube, small square foil packages carefully placed next to it.

Armie feels relieved -Timmy didn’t forget or regret- but he’s still standing frozen by the door.

“Is it too much? I can-” Timmy licks his lips nervously, “-I can turn on more lights, or just, turn them off completely— wait, do you still want to? I mean, to uhm- to do it?”

Armie exhales shakily. Locks the door behind him, the click way too loud and definitive in the silent room. Wiping his sweaty palms on his pyjama’s, Armie joins Timmy on the bed, a distance between them that Armie doesn’t think has been there before. Timmy feels way too far away, and when Armie scoots closer he can feel Timmy’s warmth, but the distance is still too big.

“Yeah… if-if you want it too,” Armie says, eyes flickering between his hands, Timmy’s open, vulnerable eyes and the equipment lined up by the bed.

_Why didn’t I think about lube and condoms? What else have I missed, forgotten? What if Timmy figured that I’d remember the rest?_

Timmy scoots closer, making their thighs line up before he kisses Armie on the mouth. It makes his heart speed up while his brain settles down. This is Timmy— the feeling of his mouth against Armie’s own a well known one of safety by now.

When Timmy places his hands on Armie’s thighs and lets them slide up, up, up towards his crotch, Armie pulls back. Says, “I’m nervous,” and holds his breath. Waits for Timmy to giggle or maybe even ask why. It would be such a Timmy thing to do. He always wants to know why, when Armie’s feeling bothered by something, and Armie appreciates it. It makes him feel like he’s important to Timmy. And Timmy never pries it out of him, never demands to be let in on Armie’s deepest thoughts. He just asks, and Armie has never gotten anything but acceptance, reassurance and love in return. So, if Timmy were to ask, Armie would most likely answer with nothing but honesty and it makes him nervous. He can’t hide things from Timmy- even though he’d sometimes like to.

Crawling into Armie’s lap, Timmy loops his arms around Armie’s neck and kisses him on the temple. “Me too,” Timmy says.

“Why are _you_ nervous?” Armie asks, enjoying the feeling of being the larger one of them, of having the roles reversed a little.

“Because— why wouldn’t I be? It’s our first time together. It’s your first time and— this might sound silly, but I feel like it’s a big deal. That you asked me to be your first, I mean. I’m nervous that I won’t be good enough for you.”

“You’re more than good enough, Timmy. That’s why I’m so- so, lost, I think,” Armie says, splaying his hands out on Timmy’s back, the narrow of his waist completely covered.

_No, not lost. He’s not making me lost._

“I mean— I want to make you feel good too. And I don’t know… how. Because I’ve been, you know, hiding. From my sexuality and it has made me avoid- uhm… the thing is, I don’t know how or what to do,” Armie says, his face heating up.

_I don’t know how to make room for you inside of me, it seems almost impossible. I’m nervous that I won’t like it, and you’ll no doubt stop everything and ask if I’m alright. I’m nervous that you’ll be disappointed. That we won’t be able to be together in every single possible way. That you’ll feel the need to look for the things I’m bad at in other people._

_“_ Maybe we can just, you know, take it slow. One thing at a time, and like, make sure that we’re both comfortable before we move on. Maybe if we just talk to each other. We’re good at that, right? _”_ Timmy says, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Armie’s neck.

“Yeah,” Armie breathes.

_Talk. Shit, I can barely talk to myself about half the things I’m freaking out about._

_“_ And— Armie, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen all the content of Pornhub’s gay category. Believe me, half of it doesn’t even come close to reality. Plus— this isn’t about other people. It’s about you and I. I’m just as new to your body as you are to mine and we’re going to take our time and figure out how to make it good. Like, _really good._ We’ve got time, right? _”_

Armie barely stops himself from checking the time on Timmy’s abandoned phone, when Timmy cups Armie’s chin, looks him in the eye and says, “I meant as in— as in, we’ve got _time._ ”

“Oh- yeah. Of course. I’m not— Timmy, I’m not going anywhere. Like, not _ever._ ” Armie says, trying to convey the promise in his words through his eyes too.

“Me neither,” Timmy says. Leans his forehead against Armie’s and looks up into his eyes.“So, just you and I.”

Armie nods. Swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

_You and I. Not going anywhere._

“How do we start?” Armie asks, hands running up and down Timmy’s back, getting closer to his ass every time he strokes downwards. “You can kiss me,” Timmy says, a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’re very good at that.”

His praise works, and when Armie kisses Timmy, he feels proud. Proud to be kissing him, to apparently be _good_ at it. Coming from Timmy, that’s a lot.

They kiss like they’ve been doing it all of their life. Timmy’s mouth opening up just as Armie deepens the kiss, Armie angling his face to avoid noses bumping into each other, Timmy sighing as he runs his hands through Armie’s hair, making Armie pull Timmy closer.

When Timmy grinds down on Armie thickening cock, he groans and throws his head back, granting Armie access to his throat.

“Fuck, Timmy,” Armie rasps, placing opened mouthed kisses on Timmy’s throat. The goosebumps appearing on Timmy’s skin makes Armie do it again, this time just beneath his ear, right below his jaw. “Baby,” Timmy answers before a shudder runs through him and he kisses Armie again. “Talk to me. Tell me how you feel,” he murmurs, tongue running along Armie’s bottom lip.

“I feel- I feel good. Hard— so hard for you,” Armie answers, emphasising his words by pushing his hard cock up against Timmy’s ass. “Mhhh, me too. Come here, feel me,” Timmy says, pushing up until the hard line of his cock is pushed against Armie’s stomach. Armie already knows how Timmy looks— know’s how his stiff cock strains against his boxers, no doubt leaving a wet patch behind.

Grabbing a handful of Timmy’s ass, Armie holds him in place, his other hand grabbing onto a fistful of curls. Pushing Timmy’s body closer, his cock pressed even further into Armie’s stomach, Armie pulls at Timmy’s hair, just enough to make him lean back his head, a throaty moan escaping as Armie grunts and pushes his face against Timmy’s chest.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he admits. “Been thinking about you, inside of me. I want— I want all of you.” It’s a good thing that Timmy can’t look him in the eye right now. Armie’s sure his eyes are dark, his cheeks crimson. It’s one thing to _do_ these things to Timmy. To act on his desires, but to voice them, to share them like this with Timmy, it’s- it feels raw. Intense, as if he’s turning himself inside out, offering his beating heart up.

“Shit, baby… you can have me. You can have me now, just- just tell me what you want and you can have it,” Timmy says, hips pushing into Armie. Armie, who tightens his hands in Timmy’s hair, his ass. Hides his face and admits, “you have to- you have to help me. I don’t know how to—” Letting go of Armie’s hair, Timmy slumps back down in his lap. Kisses a trail from the top of his forehead, down his nose, licks across his mouth and finishes just beneath his chin. “Lay down on your back,” Timmy says, hands running up Armie’s chest, smoothing out across his shoulders.

Armie does as he’s told, lying back in the middle of Timmy’s -their- bed, looking up at him. “I just have to be sure. You want _me_ to fuck _you._ Right?” Timmy asks, sitting back on his haunches. Armie nods, already feeling exposed. He’s fully dressed, but his pants are tenting and Timmy’s eyes are hungry.

“Have you ever fingered yourself? Or like, fucked yourself on a dildo?” He asks, and Armie almost sputters. Timmy’s eyes though, the look he gives Armie— they’re kind but determined. He’s being courageous on behalf of both of them. Again.

_One day, I’m going to do something big for him in return. I’m going to be the man that he deserves. Right now though, I’m giving him what I can._

“No. Uh, unless— once, I’ve tried like, one finger. I don’t know if it even counts,” Armie says, a silly, mostly nervous giggle slipping out of him.

“Good. Alright,” Timmy says, leaning down to kiss Armie. Pulls back, takes off his shirt and says, “take off your clothes baby.”

As soon as Armie’s t-shirt is off, Timmy is on him. Lips trailing along collarbones, down his chest, his tongue circling briefly around Armie’s nipples, hands running along his ribcage and hips. “Gorgeous,” Timmy mumbles, grabbing the waistband of Armie’s pants and boxers at the same time. Levitating his hips, Armie lets Timmy undress him completely. “Oh god, Armie— you’re so fucking, so—” moving back up, Timmy lines his own body up with Armie’s. Kisses his cheek, his jaw, his mouth. “I’m so lucky, baby.”

_Not luckier than me. I’m the one who won in life with you, baby._

Timmy wraps his hand around Armie’s cock, stroking softly at first before he ads more pressure, more kisses to Armie’s, throat, his jaw. When he presses his own still clothed cock against Armie’s sigh, Armie puts his hand on top of Timmy’s, the stroking coming to a stop. “You too,” he says, their eyes finding each other. “I want to see you. Want to— feel you,” he gasps when Timmy’s thumbs rub across the head of his cock. “Yeah, ‘course,” Timmy mumbles, already pushing up and away, doing quick work of his own clothes.

When Timmy kneels completely naked above him, Armie swallows. Reaches out his hands and he wants to touch, wants to devour Timmy, but he can’t. It’s like the awe that has just stricken has frozen him in place, making him stuck between allowing himself to divulge in delicate beauty but being afraid of ruining the most precious thing he’s ever been in this close proximity with.

The fact that he’s completely naked, that he’s about to be intimate with Timmy in a way that makes him blush just thinking about it evaporates into nothingness as Armie takes in Timmy’s lean, naked body.

His pale, soft skin stretching over strong bones and firm flesh, his dark, long curls a perfect contrast to his complexion. Looking at his red lips, swollen from Armie’s own, Armie’s suddenly reminded of Snow White. Of childhood when he’d read the story, had understood that the writer had tried to describe beauty in it purest form. He’d thought the idea of such beauty sounded nice, but that it could never belong anywhere else but in fairytales. He’d never expected to encounter it in real life, let alone have it offering itself up to him like this.

Like Timmy is right now, his chest rising and falling, cock hard and cheeks flushed.

_I want to give him the world._

Armie knows that no one could ever be a better first than Timmy. He knows it from the way he alternates between opening Armie up with his mouth and sucking his cock. Simultaneously preparing him for Timmy’s cock and keeping him hard, keeping it good.It’s in the way Timmy kisses Armie on the inside of his thigh, the way he moans when Armie’s pre-cum hits his tongue. The way he kisses Armie on the cheek, checking in on him. It’s in the way he brushes Armie’s hair out of his face when he says, “I really want to look at you when I fuck you, but I think it will be easier this time if you turn around baby.”

Armie knows that Timmy is the right one when he asks Armie to “put the condom on me?” But helps him roll it on the right way when Armie hesitates.

When Armie feels Timmy’s hands on his hips, his back, as he turns around, face pushed into a pillow, he feels safe.

When Timmy presses two fingers inside of him again, this time reaching much deeper with the new position, Armie gasps, his whole body tensing up.

“Does it hurt?” Timmy asks, fingers disappearing as he covers the back of Armie’s body with his own. “N-no,” Armie stutters, face pressed into the pillow. “Tell me, baby,” Timmy says, his face now resting halfway on Armie’s shoulder, halfway on the pillow. “Just— it feels… odd,” Armie admits, thoughts churning around inside his head.

“As if you’re losing control?” Timmy asks, his voice so close Armie feels as if it’s coming from within himself as if they’ve become one. Armie nods.

“Look at me,” Timmy says, brushing a hand from the crown of Armie’s head and down between his shoulder blades before he repeats the movement. “I know how it feels, baby. You don’t have to be nervous though, nothings going to happen. Just- just relax. Breath and let it pass and then, it’ll feel good. It’ll feel so good Armie, I promise. I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever tried before.”

“Are you sure?” Armie asks, his shoulders still tense.

_It feels really, really weird. How is that ever going to turn into anything nice? Why do people enjoy this? Or is there just something wrong with me?_

“I’m sure. And— and if something should happen, or if it hurts, or you just want to stop, what-ever reason, then I’m going to stop. I’d never hold it against you.”

Armie swallows. Thinks about it for a moment. If the worst possible outcome should happen, he’s sure Timmy wouldn’t embarrass him further. If he feels like he can’t take it, Timmy is going to stop. And if- if it feels as good as Timmy promises… Armie wants to try. Wants to have this, this moment with his Timmy. He wants everything.

“Alright,” Armie says. Nods and breaths in a deep breath, trying to relax his muscles.

“I love you,” Timmy whispers, kissing Armie on the temple. Armie grabs his hand, squeezes it and looks Timmy in the eye. “I love you,” he echoes. 

When he feels the head of Timmy’s cock brushing against his hole, Armie’s shoulder’s tense up again. He tries to fight it, but the further inside Timmy pushes, the further he pulls up his shoulders and the more shallow his breathing gets.

“Just relax, baby. Breath,” Timmy murmurs, his lips never far from Armie’s skin. 

Taking in a shaky breath, Armie tries. He tries, but he feels so full already and he knows that he’s still so far from the finish line. It feels like Timmy is pushing agonisingly slowly while at the same time, Armie wants to stop and take a break every other second.

“More,” he ends up saying. Maybe, if Timmy’s just quick, the uncomfortable feeling will pass a little sooner. “Like this?” Timmy asks, pushing in a little further. His voice is strained and Armie almost feels bad for dragging this out.

“All of you,” he groans, knuckles turning white where he holds on to the pillow. “Armie-” Timmy begins, sounding unsure. “Please,” Armie cuts him off.

When Timmy’s all the way inside, hips pressed against Armie’s ass, his cock filling up Armie like he’s never been before, Armie holds his breath. Prepares for Timmy to start moving, for himself to do his best.

“Fuck—” Timmy groans, leaning down to kiss Armie between the shoulder blades.

“So tight baby, fuck you feel so good,” he pants, his breath fanning over Armie’s skin. Armie nods, trying to relax. “How does it feel? Does it hurt? Tell me if it hurts,” Timmy says, his chest now flush against Armie’s back. “Still weird. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s weird,” Armie groans, his eyes screwed shut.

Timmy was right. It does feel weird- at first. And when he starts moving, his heart still lining up with Armie’s lungs, Armie almost tells him to stop. But then— then, Armie realises that the feeling of being full and open is from Timmy’s cock alone. Realises that it is Timmy fucking him. Slowly, carefully, barely even moving, but still. It makes the heat pool in Armie’s stomach, his cock hardening again.

Letting out all of the pent up tension with one deflating breath, Armie pushes back against Timmy. “Feels— feels good,” he mumbles, wanting more. “Yeah?” Timmy asks, the strained voice back. “Yeah. Want more, please.”

When Timmy starts fucking into him for real, Armie feels like he’s floating. The pressure flows into pleasure, the slide of Timmy’s cock pushing in and out of him making his whole body tingle. Armie never wants him to stop.

When Timmy pushes up on his arms, getting more room to move and push further into Armie, he hits something that makes Armie moan embarrassingly loud, his cock dripping with pre-cum. “Yeah? Like that?” Timmy groans, aiming for the spot again. Armie whimpers, repeating “yesyesyesyes, please Timmy, fuck it’s so good.”

Pushing impossibly close to Armie, Timmy stills before he starts circling his hips in small rotations. He’s breathing heavily, and when he suddenly pulls nearly all the way out, just to ram back into Armie, Armie is this god damned close to coming.

“Fuck, Timmy, you’re making me- you’re making cum,” Armie moans, turning his face to search for Timmy’s. He needs his mouth, his tongue.

“Fuck- wait,” stopping his movements, Timmy pulls out and it draws an instant whine from Armie. “Do you think- you think you can turn around?” Timmy asks, his hands running up and down Armie’s thighs. “Yeah, is something, uh, did I—” Armie starts, immediately trying to figure out what made Timmy stop. “Just really need to see your face baby. Wanna kiss you too,” Timmy says. Guiding one of Armie’s legs onto his shoulder, he pushes back inside. Waits for a moment, letting Armie adjust to the new position.

“Fuck me,” Armie groans. He knows that Timmy is trying to make sure that he’s alright, but he needs more, _now._ Needs Timmy’s cock inside of him, as deep as possible. Needs to feel nothing but Timmy, and even more self-centred, he needs Timmy to feel nothing but _him._

When Armie’s comes, his moans are swallowed by Timmy’s mouth, curls fanning both of their faces. From there on, it takes Timmy about a minute of deep thrust that makes Armie feel raw before his hips stutter and he stills, spilling his cum. Armie imagines the barrier of the condom being gone, imagines Timmy’s cum filling him up from the inside.

Later, when Armie doesn’t feel wet anymore and they’ve pulled the sheets above the both of them, Timmy kisses Armie on top of his head. “How do you feel?”

_Tired, but in a floating, weightless way. Happy, lucky. Satiated, as if I’ve always been missing this. As if I’ve always been missing you._

_“_ I feel good, _”_ Armie says, kissing Timmy on his chest where’s he’s currently resting his face. “Yeah? Does it hurt?”

“Yeah, a little. But it’s… sorry if it sounds weird, but it hurts in a good way? Like, I still feel pretty— uh, stretched but uhm, I like that I can still feel you.”

When all that follows from Timmy is silence, Armie tilts his head to look at him. “Is it weird?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then a groan. “God, Armie you can’t just say things like that. Do you have any idea how little it takes for you to make me hard? Bet I could fuck you again, right now if I wanted to. Don’t you think baby? Just get my cock out and push right in,” Timmy says, his voice a low rumble, and when Armie feels his own cock stir again, his hole fluttering, he can’t stop his own curiosity.

Trailing his hand down Timmy’s chest, Armie brushes his hand along Timmy's dick. Timmy really is hard again, his cock lying heavily on his stomach. And then, because Armie swears that his hole misses Timmy’s cock already, he reaches behind himself. Runs a finger between his cheeks, feeling how easily it slips into his loose hole.

“I think you could,” Armie says, feeling high and free. “I’m still so open, from your—” Armie licks his lips, pushing the finger further inside and whimpers “— from your cock,” he finishes.

It’s enough to make Timmy groan and roll over. Enough to make him look at Armie, make sure that they’re both being serious, that Armie really can take it, before he pushes inside of him for the second time that night. This time, without a condom, because when Timmy had fumbled for one more, Armie had gathered up enough courage. Had said “I really want to feel you, and you know that I’ve never—” and then he’d trailed off, when Timmy’s eyes had gone dark, the intensity swallowing him up. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m clean, don’t worry, but— Armie, it’s your body. You’re the one who decides if—”

“I trust you. And I— Tim, you know that you’re the only one I want.”

So, Timmy had dropped the foil package on the floor and fucked Armie. Had fucked him slowly at first, their hands locked together, mouths swallowing groans before Armie had dug the heel of his foot into Timmy’s ass. Had told him to “ _Fuck me, hard._ ”

When Timmy came for the second time, Armie swore that he could feel it inside of him.

And now, both of them curled up while facing each other and holding hands, Armie can’t think of a better first time. Tomorrow, he’ll remember to ask Timmy if he can fuck him too.

Armie wants to give him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	20. Staying in place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to meet Timmy. My boyfriend,” Armie says, taking hold of Timmy’s hand as he looks at Viktor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought that these two would be done coming up with stuff to do by now, but I was wrong - hence the chapter count going up. 
> 
> I'm acutely aware that past me would've preferred this to be better, but present me can't deliver that, so. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

On the last day of November, Armie gets a call from Stuhlbarg. With his phone clutched tightly in his hand, Armie tries to swallow down his heart that is currently squirming its way up through his throat. The door to his room is ajar but it doesn’t matter- he’s the only one at home.

Armie already knows the purpose of the incoming phone call— knew the moment he saw Stuhlbarg’s name flash across the screen.

As his predictions come true, Armie tries to let Stuhlbarg’s words settle together with his heartbeat. “He refuses all allegations,” Stuhlbarg says. He’s quiet for a moment. Waits for Armie to force a strangled sound out of his restricting airways, followed by a tight, “okay.”

“So, we’re going to the Court… which means you’ll be called in as the primary witness in a couple of days. We won’t relent until justice is served, Armie. ”

Armie hangs up the phone after that. Stares out his window, contemplating what to do next.

He wants to run but he doesn’t know where. Armie knows by now that sometimes his worst fears, the feeling of being haunted and watched doesn’t stem from people actually watching him. Knows that most times, it’s all happening inside of him. The trick is to stay in place, stay calm.

Knows that the more he tries to run, the faster he sprints, the louder it will scream at him, the bigger it will get and he’ll inevitably end up tripping. Will crash to the ground and bleed.

So, he needs to stay in place. Needs to acknowledge the feelings for what they are- feelings. He’s far from mastered that skill yet but he tries because he’s so tired of running. He doesn’t want to flee anymore.

Standing up, he looks out the window, down at the street where cars pass by.

He thinks about Timmy. About Nick and Tyler— Ashton and Henry too. He’s got nowhere to run. There’s nowhere that’ll make him safer than he is here, anyway. And what good would a secluded tropical island do without Timmy’s laugh? It would just be another place, another residence.

Sighing, Armie turns his back to the window. Pushes his bedroom door open as he leaves for Timmy’s room. In there, he falls face first on top of the bed. Breathes in Timmy and feels his heart settle back into his chest.

_You won’t find this kind of safety anywhere else._

When Timmy comes home, Armie waits for him by the front door.

He’s aware that he looks bad, can feel how puffy his eyes are, how stuffy his nose is.

Looking at the time on his phone, he shifts from one foot to another. He’s trying to stop himself from leaving the apartment and walk in the direction that he knows Timmy will come from, while simultaneously being on the verge of slipping back into his room.

Staying in place feels suffocating.

Almost panics and runs when he hears the lock in the door, sees the doorknob move. Almost hurries into his own room where he can lock the door and hide.

He stays in place though, hands twisting in his sweatshirt. He doesn’t feel tall and strong right now— he feels smaller than Timmy, smaller than he’s ever been. Smaller than when he was brand new and there was hope - hope that his mother would fall in love with him, that his father would feel unconditionally proud.

He feels tiny and fragile when Timmy enters and looks up at him when he drops his bag to the floor with a thud. Feels heavy and relieved all at once when Timmy wordlessly holds him tight, when his hands clutch Armie’s shoulder, the back of his head.

“What happened?” Timmy asks, his head bend backwards in an awkward angle— an angle that they’ve practised because their bodies are two complete opposites but they’ve made them fit. They’ve folded into each other enough times to know where to bend, where to stretch. It’s what makes them each their own person yet one and the same.

“He didn’t plead guilty,” Armie sniffles, clutching Timmy. He doesn’t regret for one second that he waited out here. That he stood out in the open, vulnerable and dissolving, waiting for Timmy to come and keep him together.

“Just like we expected,” Timmy says, fingers massaging Armie’s scalp in a hard, borderline rough way that makes Armie settle even further into Timmy’s body. Armie nods. Feels his heart tremble, pain seeping out of him and rolling down his face when Timmy squeezes tighter. “But it still hurts.”

Resting his forehead against Timmy’s, Armie focuses on his breathing. Focuses on the soft brush of Timmy’s nose, on the feeling of the bands around his chest loosening.

“How was your day?” He asks. He’s going to be alright. Timmy’s here, and he’s not alone. The hurt is just a feeling— a feeling that proves that he’s nothing like his father, that he’s a well-functioning human. One that’s not as broken as he’d first thought.

“It was alright. What about you?” Timmy’s eyes are a clear green when he looks at Armie, his cheeks still flushed from his bike ride.

_This- this is what I choose to spend my energy on. This is who I give my time, my future._

“It was nice. I beat Nick’s ass on the track field -as usual-, work was alright too.”

“Yeah? How is Archie?” Timmy asks, and Armie chuckles because Timmy always expects a full report on the dog on the days that he can’t go with Armie.

“He’s good too. I think he missed you though, he’s never as excited about me as he is about you.”

“It’s the treats. Didn’t you give him any?” Timmy asks, placing a small peck on Armie’s mouth before he pulls back.

“He’ll just get fat,” Armie protests, already feeling like he’s only half warm, half whole.

“My Archie won’t get fat,” Timmy huffs, walking to the kitchen.

“ _Your_ Archie?” Armie asks, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyebrows raised.

“What do you want? Macaroni and cheese or pasta with ketchup?” Timmy asks, his voiced swallowed by the fridge. Armie doesn’t call him out on his possessiveness, already knows that Timmy would’ve brought the dog home on day one if he could.

“Mac’n’cheese, please,” Armie says, coming up behind Timmy to kiss him on the cheek. 

* * *

It’s only a couple of weeks later, that Armie stands in front of the bathroom mirror, taming down his hair with shaky hands. His button-down is crisp and fresh beneath a dark blue pullover.

He feels stiff and uncomfortable but Michelle had insisted. Armie aligned- he doesn’t need the judge to feel like there is any reason why he should be lying. Doesn’t want anyone to feel like he shouldn’t be taken seriously- like he’s just a teenage kid who had a falling out with his parents.

He wants to be taken seriously, so here he is. Looking _good_ , if Timmy’s words are anything to go by. He mostly just feels uncomfortable though.

In any other circumstances, he would already be looking forward to coming home later, to kick these pants off and pull on his sweatpants, but he can’t. Can’t find enough calmness to think about a time after today, even though he knows there’ll be one.

He’s been going over this day inside his head for weeks. Ever since his father denied being guilty. He’s been building up scenarios- some of them ending in catastrophes before Timmy made him pull his head out of his gutter. Some of them with outcomes in favour of himself too and those are the ones he’s fighting to focus on right now.

In half an hour they’re going to leave the apartment. Once inside the courtroom, he’s going to sit next to Stuhlbarg upfront. Timmy and Michelle will be there too, in the back. Armie focuses on that. Tries not to think about his father being there— about the other witnesses, his mother and older brother. It’s been years since he last saw Viktor.

He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to recognise him… if Viktor will want to recognise Armie at all.

In mere hours, this is going to be over. The judge will either convict his father of the accusations or not. Armie can’t wrap his head around it, so he just stops trying.

Giving up on his hair, Armie straightens out his shirt and leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t want to be alone right now.

* * *

The courtroom is nothing like Armie had expected. It looks new and modern. Smooth surfaces and sharp edges combined with calm, cool colours. It throws him a little— he’d pictured the room a thousand times and yet he’d never thought about the fact that he didn’t really know how it looked.

How many things are going to go differently than he imagined?

But then again, maybe it’s a good thing that the place looks more like a big meeting room with odd furniture than an actual courtroom. It makes him feel less like the villain he keeps telling himself that he isn’t. He’s a victim— a survivor. At least, that’s what the therapist at school had called him. What Timmy insist he is, even though Timmy emphasises the whole survivor thing more than the therapist had. More than Armie himself does.

Armie isn’t sure that he can call himself a survivor yet. Isn’t sure he’ll ever think of himself as one, actually. In his world, a survivor looks more like Timmy. Timmy, who had his parents taken away unwillingly.

“Hey,” Timmy says, his voice close, hand squeezing Armie’s own sweaty one. “- it’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, and we’ll be fine.”

“How can you— how do you know that?” Armie asks, swallowing when he looks at the people passing by in the hallway, all of them going into the same room.

Cupping Armie’s cheek with his hand, Timmy makes Armie look him in the eye. “Because no one can take me away from you. Because no matter what, I’m still going to be here. Alright?” He looks so sincere, so determined, that Armie can’t do anything but nod his head.

_Timmy’s got no reason to be involved in this. He could be home, or with friends. He could be carefree -or at least, keep to worry about his own losses. He could be anywhere, and yet he’s here. Because of me, reassuring me, calming me. If he can do this by his own free will— then I can at least try and be the person he deserves._

Straightening up, Armie looks around the hallway. There are people everywhere and his own mother might very well be one of them. Because even though she hadn’t picked up his call the other night when he had made an agonising, rejected attempt at reaching out, she’s still obligated to be here.

Michelle and Stuhlbarg are standing a few feet away, heads bowed, hushed words being exchanged.

Scanning the room one last time, Armie breathes in a deep breath. Looks at Timmy, at his eyes. His lips— always ready for Armie’s own.

_He gave me everything, and I’ll him back twice as much._

Bending down just enough, Armie kisses Timmy on the mouth. It’s soft and brief, not enough to offend anyone. It’s loving and gentle, and when he pulls back, Timmy’s eyes are sparkling in a way that almost distracts Armie from the tight coil of anxiety in his stomach.

“Boys,” Michelle says, suddenly standing right behind Timmy.

A week ago, it would’ve made Armie shiver in fear of having been found out. Now— now he just blushes.

Michelle knows about them now, and Timmy had been right. Had been right, because when Timmy had stepped in front of Armie one morning, had clutched his hand and looked at Michelle, Armie hadn’t been as scared as he thought he’d be.

When Timmy had told Michelle that “ _Armie and I— We aren’t exactly friends… anymore,_ ” Michelle had looked worried. Had stopped in her steps and her eyes had landed on their hands, and when her forehead smoothed out and a smile appeared in her eyes, Armie had felt safe. “ _I didn’t think you ever really were anyway, to be honest”_ she had said. And then, right before she left the room— “ _I don’t care what you boys do, really, but if you’re having sex, please be safe and—_ ” and she hadn’t finished before Timmy had cut her off with a groan and “ _oh sweet Jesus please not again._ ”

“We’re starting in ten,” she says, giving her watch a pointed look. This time, a chill does run down Armie’s spine, manifesting in his stomach. “I’m right behind you,” Timmy says, giving Armie’s hand a squeeze.

Just like Armie had realised upon seeing the courtroom, nothing turns out to go exactly as he’d imagined. Well, aside from Timmy and Michelle being in the back of the room, Stuhlbarg by his side.

The judge doesn’t even look old and stuffy. She looks young— younger than Armie thought a judge could be. Her eyes are sharp and she’s quick. Quick to silence his father’s lawyer when he time and time again cut in.

Quick to order silence when whispers start to spread throughout the room, because Armie needs a second, just a second, please. A second to swallow and breath through his nose, because suddenly his father is right there. Right there, in the middle of the room, hands restricted by a set of handcuffs, his face hard and impassive.

Armie doesn’t know if the bile rising in his throat comes from being the one who put his father in those handcuffs, or from being the victim of those restricted hands. Maybe it’s simply because of the void, cold look in his eyes when they land on Armie. Maybe it’s because Armie had had a small hope that his father’s words that day at the school, had had some truth to them.

Right there, in the middle of the courtroom, Armie realises that he’d been stupid to hope for any such thing.

When the whispers die down, Armie turns towards the back of the room. Spots Timmy, his eyes showing Armie the love that he can’t find in the front of the room instantly, and a calm settles over him.

When Stuhlbarg has presented the evidence, including the pictures Timmy had taken, the whole room is quiet. Even his father’s lawyer.

As Armie expected, his mother doesn’t even look at him while she’s called up to testify. She refuses to answer any questions, just looks down at her hands the whole time through. She doesn’t look guilty, Armie thinks. Not like a mother at all. He wonders if she has always looked like that— if he just didn’t want to see it.

What Armie doesn’t expect, is for his brother to look exactly like he remembers him, only a little older. He doesn’t look anything like their father, and Armie is suddenly relieved. He hadn’t realised until now, but he’d feared a younger version of his worst nightmare. Had feared that his only sibling would be like their father -cruel, cold and brutal. Had feared that looking at Viktor would be looking like his father and in turn, like looking at his future self.

But he’s not— his face is kind, and when Armie finally looks him in the eye, it’s fleeting. Fleeting, because unlike their mother, Viktor does look guilty. He looks everywhere but at Armie, and when he’s asked why he never did anything to help his younger brother, since, apparently he knew, he breaks down. Wipes at his face and sniffles, and finally, _finally,_ he looks at Armie.

“I was young,” he says, a small shrug followed, as if he can’t help it but doesn’t want to brush off his own guilt.

“I’ve regretted it ever since but I- I didn’t know what to do”, Viktor says, his voice tight. Leaning towards the edge of the seat, he turns fully to Armie. His eyes are pleading and Armie feels overwhelmed -overwhelmed with the sudden need to look at Viktor, to hear his voice, to be worthy of his older brother’s attention, his protection.

“I couldn’t— I couldn’t be in that house anymore, Armie. And I know, I _know_ I should’ve taken you with me, but I didn’t even know where I was going, or how to even feed us both and- _shit._ Armie, I was just a kid, younger than you, and I’m sorry,” Viktor says, his face one of regret and remorse. He looks straight at Armie.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, this time looking at Stuhlbarg, at the judge, as if remembering his surroundings. 

Armie feels dizzy, and in a way, he had imagined that this day would be the longest one in his life. That it would drag on forever, that they would never reach the time when the judge decides if this is a bad day or a really bad day.

And yet- as the word _guilty_ , and the sound of the whole courtroom standing up at once echoes in Armie’s ears, he can’t believe that it happened so fast. That that time he couldn’t think about without throwing up, is here, now.

He’s faintly aware of Stuhlbarg shaking his hand. Thinks he hears someone congratulate him, even though he doesn’t feel like there’s anything to be congratulated on. He just made sure that his father won’t be able to walk the streets for years.

_No. You made sure that he’s done hurting you. Hurting others._

As people pass him by, some leaving the courtroom, some coming up to Stuhlbarg, Armie can barely feel his own legs. He should’ve prepared for this moment - should’ve prepared for how it would feel in case this was the outcome. Because right now, he feels distant and shaky, the world blurring and he’s not sad, he’s not angry, but he’s not happy either. There’s a tinge of relief somewhere in his chest, but mostly he just feels… numb. As if a power button he didn’t know he had was just pushed, all of a sudden making him deflate, turn off.

When he spots Timmy coming towards him, his legs finally decides to work. It’s like he’s carrying himself on autopilot, floating towards safety.

“Come here,” Timmy says, folding Armie into his arms, holding him tight.

_No one can take me away from you._

“It’s over,” Armie hears himself mumble, words muffled by Timmy’s neck.

“It is. It’s done baby, it’s over. I’m so proud of you.”

Like a marathon runner finally crossing the finish line, Armie feels himself let go. His body loosens up all at once and everything flows out of him.

“I did it,” he sniffles, finally realising that he _really did it. “_ I made him stop- I made it stop. _”_ The relief flowing through his body is overwhelming, and Armie finds himself crying for the first time in days, his chest expanding as he sucks in air, as Timmy rocks the both of them back and forth.

“Yes, you did, because you’re strong and brave,” Timmy says, his voice as insisting as always.

“Thank you, Tim. I couldn’t have— I couldn’t have done it without you. I don’t know what… what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up. I can’t even think about it,” Armie says, his chest hurting with how much he means it.

_If you hadn’t been here, if I didn’t have you, then… no. don’t think about it, it’s irrelevant now._

“You could, baby. You can do anything,” Timmy answers, his cheek pressed to Armie’s.

* * *

They’re standing in the wide-open hallway by the entrance when Armie hears his own name being called.

Turning around, his eyes dart around, searching for the person belonging to the voice. He _knows_ the voice. Armie finds him standing off to the side, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched as if to protect himself. 

Timmy lets go of their clasped hands, and Armie knows that he has found Viktor too. Can already feel him take a step back, ready to put a platonic distance between them.

Armie isn’t having that— he’s made it this far. If Viktor can’t accept Timmy, then Armie isn’t much poorer anyway. He already lost his brother once.

Taking a strong hold of Timmy’s hand, Armie intertwines their fingers and pulls him closer. His heart is galloping, his legs going numb again but _shit,_ Timmy is his everything. _Everything._

Viktor doesn’t make any further moves - his eyes darting between Armie and Timmy, down to their hands and back up. Armie expects him to look disgusted. To at least snort and turn around, take his offer -of what, Armie doesn’t know- back and leave.

He doesn’t expect Viktor to nod at Timmy. To look sheepish and apprehensive, as if _he_ is the one putting everything on the line. Out of the corner of his eye, Armie sees Timmy nod back at Viktor, can almost feel the reassurance in the smile Timmy offers back at him.

Feeling Timmy’s thumb rub back and forth on the back of his hand, Armie looks at him. “You can do it,” Timmy says, and Armie feels the last bit of courage he needed. As if pushed by Timmy’s encouraging smile, Armie lets go of his hand and strides towards Viktor. 

As Armie closes his arms around the middle of Viktor’s chest, the sound of a gasp is heard, and Armie doesn’t know which one of them it comes from. Judged by the way Viktor holds him tight, it could either be from him or them both.

There’s a long silence. It doesn’t matter, Armie thinks. Words aren’t going to help them anyway, not with all the years between them, all of the guilt, disappointment, loss and regret.

Being in his brother’s embrace again is like having his childhood engulf him while at the same time feeling like he’s in a foreign place. It’s the feeling of remembering everything and knowing nothing. Viktor is all the same and yet nothing like Armie imagined or remembers. But then again, Armie isn’t sure how much of his memory is actually true and how much he made up in order to have something nice.

Viktor is the first one to speak, his words courageous despite his hushed voice telling a different story. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Armie pulls back. Dries his eyes and stuffs his hands back into his pockets.

“I- uhh. I… thank you. For coming,” is what Armie ends up answering.

_I missed you, too. I needed you— I depended on you. You left and I’ve been beyond missing you._

Armie can’t bring himself to say it back. He’s not angry but he’s not ready to forget yet either.

“Of course,” Viktor says, looking down briefly before looking back up at Armie, his eyes searching. “I’m so, so sorry for leaving you behind back then.”

_Yeah. Me too._

“I know,” Armie says before he swallows in a dry throat. Furrowing his eyebrows, he thinks about Timmy’s words mere minutes ago. Turning, Armie looks for him and finds him, not too far away. Turning back towards Viktor, Armie says, “I- I think I understand why you did it.”

_Just look at me- I couldn’t stand it any longer either. Had the roles been reversed, I would’ve run too. But I would’ve never left you behind._

“Do you think… do you think that you will ever forgive me?” Viktor asks, hand scratching the back of his hair in the tell-tale nervous way that Armie suddenly remembers and recognises.

“Yeah… just- just give me some time?” Armie answers and it feels like he’s asking, and maybe he is. Maybe he’s asking himself to just give it some time- if Timmy is right, if the therapist is right, if _he_ himself is right then maybe, yeah.

Viktor looks relieved. “Of course.”

Looking around, Armie is aware that they’re both stalling. That Viktor probably wants more- wants to reach all the way back to the thirteen-year-old he left behind, and Armie wants to do what that thirteen-year-old was taught so well to do— he wants to retract. Wants to build a pillow fort and hide from the big, dangerous world, and god, _will I ever learn that the world isn’t dangerous per definition?_

When Armie looks at Timmy for the second time, he’s reminded exactly how the world can be everything but dangerous. Holding his hand out in the direction of Timmy, Armie beckons him closer.

“I want you to meet Timmy. My boyfriend,” Armie says, taking hold of Timmy’s hand as he looks at Viktor.

Shoulders slumping, a smile on his face, Viktor visibly relaxes. Offers his hand for Timmy to shake, introduces himself as “Viktor Hammer. It’s really nice to meet you, Timmy.”

Armie knows that Timmy is fiercely protective of the people he loves, suspects that it has something to do with his own loses, so it’s really no surprise when Timmy shakes Viktor’s hand firmly. It’s no surprise when his eyes gleam with something that looks like a warning. It makes Armie feel even more relieved when Timmy seemingly deems Viktor good enough and gives him a genuine smile.

_If Timmy can trust him, then maybe so can I. Eventually._

Giving Armie a genuine smile that washes any doubts he might’ve had away, Viktor says, “I’m so happy that you’re happy.” Armie knows that he means it. Feels proud, and _god_ it feels good to show people that _he_ belongs to _Timmy._

Pulling Timmy closer to his side, Armie places his arm around his shoulder and presses his nose into his hair, trying to hide the blooming smile he knows is on his face. It’s then that he spots his mother. She’s standing by a corner, looking as if she’s trying to disappear in the crowd. Definitely acting as if Armie doesn’t exist - as if he’s become thin air.

It reminds Armie about the things he can never have. About the things he can’t do anything about -it’s not like it’s illegal not to love your child.

“Hey, don’t think about it. She’ll be fine and— regarding you and Timmy, she’s got no say in that. I’ll look after her, don’t worry,” Viktor says, following Armie’s gaze.

“I just wish that…” Armie begins, eyes still seeking out his mother’s attention. It doesn’t work. Armie shakes his head, rids himself of the lingering hope. “Never mind. Are you sure you don’t mind? I mean, I don’t think she’ll want to talk to me but—”

“Armie—” Viktor says, placing his hand on Armie’s shoulder as if on reflex. He removes it again instantly, even though Armie didn’t mind. Doesn’t mind. “— Whatever it takes to… to make things easier for you. For the both of you,” Viktor says, gesturing at Timmy.

When Viktor leaves the building alongside Dru, Armie feels lighter. He can’t help but feel like he officially lost his parents but maybe… maybe he never really had them in the first place. Maybe he should stop thinking of this as a loss, and more of a gain. He just got his brother back -at least he thinks so. He got his life back. A chance at a future, a future that he decides what entails.

He doesn’t have real parents but he’s got, Timmy. Nick and the guys— Michelle and Viktor. And— and if Timmy will let him, he’s got two other people too and he might not have met them, knows he never will, but he likes to think that maybe… who knows, maybe if Nichole and Marc had been here, they would’ve told Armie to call them Mom and Papa too. Maybe. 

Whatever they would’ve told him to call them, Armie knows that he’ll honour them and respect them for the rest of his life. Will be forever thankful that they gave him Timothée.

They’ve taken a seat next to each other on the steps outside the building, waiting for Michelle to show up. The sun is shining and Armie doesn’t know if it just broke through or if it’s been shining the whole day. He feels it now, though. The warm rays, filling him up with energy.

When Michelle exits the building, she’s smiling and Armie isn’t sure that he’s seen her look so free in a long time. She hands him a small white envelope with _Armie_ sprawled in neat but hurried letters on the front. “Stuhlbarg,” she says, squeezing his bicep and it’s by far the freest and caring she’s ever been around him.

Once in the back of the car, Armie opens the envelope. Folds open a white piece of paper and scan the words. Reads them more thoroughly, once, twice, before he swallows and breaths in a steadying breath.

_Armie,_

_This part of the process is over but remember, it was only part of it._

_Now, comes the difficult part. You need to keep going._

_You’re already so much better than your father, Armie._

_Remember that and don’t let go of it._

_You can’t be expected to go on as if this never happened, and you’ll have to forgive yourself for that. Know, that it doesn’t define you but that it will inevitably show up at times, probably when you least expect it. Recognise it as what it is -the past._

_Remind yourself that you are the strong one. The good one._

_You’re capable of so much love and joy, Armie._

_Embrace it, share it. Spread it out._

_\- Stuhlbarg._

Armie folds the letter back into the envelope. Takes Timmy’s offered hand and finally, it feels easier to breathe.

* * *

A week later, Armie parks his car by the rescue centre. There’s still twenty minutes until his shift starts but it seems like a waste of time to go home, just to leave again immediately. Plus, Timmy wants to see Archie. In fact, he had been mentioning the dog at least once a day for the past week.

Armie can’t deny him anything, not even if he tried.

Yawning, Armie rubs his eyes and slumps in his seat. “Tired?” Timmy asks, leaning over to run a hand through Armie’s hair. It’s short and the strands bounce right back in place every time Timmy’s runs a hand through it.

Armie hums and leans into Timmy’s touch, closing his eyes.

“You should sleep more.”

Armie cracks open an eye and pears up at Timmy. “Are you saying that it’s my fault that I’m not getting any sleep?” He asks. Timmy grins, his eyes twinkling. “Yeah, I am,” he says, leaning in to brush his lips against Armie’s. “Having you in my bed, naked and all mine… You make it _difficult._ ” Placing a kiss on the corner of Armie’s mouth, Timmy pulls back, his touch disappearing completely.

Armie blushes when he thinks about what had kept him -them- awake for most of the night. Thinks about having Timmy’s cock in his mouth at the same time as his own cock hit the back of Timmy’s throat. It had felt so primal, the way they had licked and touched, needing each other so much that they had come full circle, quite literally.

Reaching out, Armie grabs a fistful of Timmy’s curls before he can get too far away. Pulls carefully, making Timmy look back at him, his eyes hooded and Armie knows that Timmy is being a little shit.

“Not so fast,” Armie says. Brings his face close to Timmy’s, just close enough so that Timmy automatically opens his mouth, ready to be kissed.

Armie breathes through his mouth and thinks about the way Timmy responds when he grabs his naked thighs when he pulls him down on the bed. Thinks about the way Timmy mewls and keens when Armie asks him in the sternest voice he can muster up, “ _who gets to fuck you, Timmy?_ ” Or “ _feel that baby? Feel what you do to me?_ ” And he only asks these questions when Timmy is on his front when he can’t look directly at Armie’s face, because _fuck,_ Armie isn’t like this, not really. He wants to be, but he doesn’t think that he can just— that he can just claim to be in charge, all of sudden. It’s not a role that he’s familiar with, doesn’t feel like something he’s got a right to.

“If you’re good—” he starts. Licks his lips and looks down, can’t look Timmy in the eye when he says this. “— if you’re _good,_ then I’ll let you fuck me tonight.”’

“ _Fuck—_ ” Timmy groans. Gasps when Armie’s tongue licks into his open mouth when Armie tightens his hand and catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Shudders when Armie lets go, when he pulls back and says, “ready?”

“Fuck off,” Timmy laughs. Opens the side door and climbs out, smiling at Armie across the top of the car.

* * *

As predicted, Timmy spends the whole afternoon cuddling with Archie.

It always goes something like this: Timmy does an impatient walk/run down the hallway to Archie’s cradle, and Armie follows, at a normal pace. Because even though Armie promised to tell Timmy if the dog got a new family, Timmy apparently needs to see with his own eyes that Archie is still there.

So, Timmy will rush down to Archie. Will exclaim in a ridiculously excited voice, “hello there, hi, oh I missed you too, yeah I did,” and Armie will roll his eyes fondly.

Then, Armie will go about his own business, which is easy, because Timmy spends more time talking to Archie than he does to Armie. Then, when the time comes and Armie is more than ready to go home and end the day, Timmy will start pouting. Will tell Armie “yeah, give me five minutes,” and Armie will give him ten before he says something again. Sometimes, this part of the routine will be repeated more than once, until Armie sighs heavily and Timmy says, “fine, fine, I’m coming.”

Armie always spends half the drive home trying to make Timmy laugh because he’s always sulking.

Today, Armie feels bad when he starts closing up. Feels bad, because Timmy has spent the past hour in the corner with Archie in his lap. And Armie can’t hear his quiet murmurs, can’t hear his whispered confessions and secrets, because he doesn’t want to. He wants Timmy to have this- a calm, reliable friend. Someone who just needs some love and attention, someone who’s not complicated.

Armie wants Timmy to have something easy.

It’s not difficult to figure out why Timmy is so attached to the dog, not even for Armie who thinks of himself as slightly broken, slightly messed up regarding feelings. He can see how Timmy calms down just now- can see how Archie clearly loves Timmy back.

Today, Armie doesn’t throw a quick “we’re leaving in five,” over his shoulder. Today, he crouches down next to Timmy and scratches Archie behind an ear. Kisses Timmy on the forehead, says, “ten minutes?” And gets back up to finish closing up the place.

* * *

“Your birthday is coming up soon,” Armie states, spitting out his toothpaste in the sink. He’s been thinking about how to bring this up countless times, and each time he’s been coming up short with how to start the conversation. He’s long since given up on being smooth by now, figures that he might as well just put it out there.

“I know,” Timmy answers, his voice bouncing off of the walls in the bathroom. As Armie puts his toothbrush away, the shower turns off and Timmy steps out. His curls are smoothed out, making his hair longer. Armie steps closer brushes away a wet strand of hair that was clinging to Timmy’s temple. “So, I was wondering what you want to do— for your birthday,” Armie says.

He’s not really sure what Timmy’s answer will be— what his reaction will be. He figures it could go both ways, just hopes that he won’t be mad at Armie for bringing it up. But what is Armie supposed to do? It feels weird to ignore that fact that his boyfriends birthday is in less than a month. Plus— Timmy promised that they would always just _talk_ to each other.

“December 27th is on a Wednesday this year,” Timmy says as if that answers anything. Armie’s got a pretty good feeling where this is going.

“And? You can’t have birthday’s on Wednesdays?” The deadpan-look Timmy shoots him makes Armie plaster on an innocent smile when in reality, he already knows that this is a lost battle.

“It’s just a regular Wednesday. Can’t we just… I don’t know, not make a big deal out of it?” Timmy asks, pulling on his underwear.

“Are you sure?” Armie asks, feeling like he’s giving up too soon and yet, the look on Timmy’s face clearly tells another story.

“Armie, I— thank you for like, thinking about it, but really, it’s— it’s just not… I usually sleep in and go to bed early that day. Can’t we just do that?” Timmy’s eyes look pleading, and Armie finds himself nodding. “Of course,” he agrees.

When Timmy slides his hands down Armie’s back, down his ass, lips pressing against his collarbone, Armie almost forgets about the haunted look in Timmy’s eyes.

That night, Armie lies awake, taking in Timmy’s sleeping face. Their hands are loosely holding onto each other, and Armie wants to reach out and run the tip of his finger along every curve and edge of Timmy’s face. Wants to be able to close his eyes and feel Timmy’s face in his fingers, on his lips.

As Timmy sighs and turns onto his back, Armie feels a sudden, powerful urge to protect. To keep Timmy from being hurt, to make sure that he’ll never need anything, that he’ll be happy.

_Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you like your birthday again._

* * *

When Armie quietly slips out of bed the next morning, he got a plan. Or like- an idea. He needs to get Michelle on board first. It really just depends on her, if his idea will become an actual plan.

The sound of the coffee machine and the TV on low volume sounds throughout the hallway and when Armie walks into the kitchen, he finds Michelle reading on a tablet.

“Morning,” she says, acknowledging his presence with a smile.

“Good morning,” he answers, pouring himself some coffee. Thrumming his fingers on the kitchen counter, he looks down at his coffee, trying to formulate his question.

“There’s this dog at the rescue centre,” he begins. Immediately regrets it when Michelle raises an eyebrow. “A dog?”

Armie feels like a child, trying to convince their parents that getting a pet is a good idea. He needs to change his approach.

“Listen,” he says, taking a seat in front of her. “Timmy’s birthday is soon—” when she hums, he leans a little closer, mug still placed between his hands. “—and he doesn’t want to do anything. Like, I understand why he feels about the day the way he does but I just…” sighing, Armie scratches the back of his neck. It’s really fucking hard to be talking to Michelle about this, but he’s dead set on doing this for Timmy.

“If I could, I would bring them back, you know? I would do it in a heartbeat, I would— of course, I can’t do that. But there’s this dog, at the rescue centre -Archie. Timmy loves him, and I know that he dreads the day Archie goes home with someone else.”

“Let me get this right. You want to give Timmy a dog for his birthday?” Michelle asks, sounding sceptical. Armie hopes he isn’t imagining the softness in her eyes though, because yeah, he _really_ wants to bring Archie home.

“Uhuh. Yeah, and— like, it’s totally alright if you say no, I mean, it’s your place and stuff but _if_ you say yes, then I promise that we’ll take care of him ourself,” Armie rushes.

Michelle closes her eyes for a moment, making a grimace that could either mean that she’s about to say no or really close to saying yes. Armie decides she probably just needs one last push.

“It’s just… I think he feels calm and. I don’t know, less lonely? When he’s with Archie. Like… he named him himself and everything.”

“Is it a big dog? Will it tear down the place?” Michelle asks, and Armie thinks he’s pretty close to winning her over.

“Semi-big?” He says. “But he’s really well-behaved already, and clean and—”

“Alright. You can bring the dog, or— whatever,” Michelle says, waving a hand as she gives in.

“Really? Thank you!” Armie exclaims, perking up in his chair.

“Yes, on one condition-” Michelle says, holding up a finger. “— I don’t want to come home to a chewed couch, or dog hair in my bed.”

“I promise that you won’t,” Armie hurries, standing from his chair.

“Good,” Michelle sighs, going back to her tablet. Armie leaves the kitchen before she can change her mind.

He goes into his own room, where Timmy can’t spy on him. Pulls out his phone and texts Nick, his hands shaking with giddiness.

_I can’t wait to tell Timmy. He’s going to be absolutely thrilled._

_Armie_ : I need ur help

* * *

The next day, Armie picks up Archie and drives to Nick’s place.

There’s still some time left until Timmy’s birthday but Timmy isn’t the only one who’s worried that someone else will fall in love with Archie. Armie partly worries that Archie will get too comfortable at Nick’s place during the next couple of weeks, that it’s unfair to install him at a new place just to remove him again so soon.

Anyway, the fear of Archie being picked up before December 27th is bigger than his worries of the dog is confused.

When he gets there, Nick’s mom looks disapprovingly at Archie but Armie knows her. Has known her his whole life, so he recognises the lines around her mouth, the soft look in her eyes. It’s how she’s always looked at him and Nick when they’d gotten too creative and done something borderline stupid but just on the right side of genius. He’s fairly sure that she doesn’t mind as much as she lets on. When she insists on a hug, Armie knows that she’s not really mad about the dog. 

“She must be a very special girl to deserve such a present,” she says, looking knowingly at Armie.

Armie pauses. Stuffs his hands in his jeans and exchanges a look with Nick, who turns towards his mother, mouth opening as if to say something, to get her off Armie’s back.

Armie beats him to it. “He,” Armie corrects her. “It’s very special he.” He can feel a blush spreading all the way from his chest to his cheeks, but he feels proud. Being honest about his feelings for Timmy feels so much better than hiding them away and lying about them. Timmy doesn’t deserve to be hidden away and Armie thinks that maybe, he doesn’t deserve to be ashamed of his feelings either.

When he looks back up, Nick beams at him.

Nick’s mom looks surprised but doesn’t comment on it, other than asking if this _he_ has a name. When Nick reminds her that she already met Timmy once, she looks pleased. “Oh, the nice one with the curls?” She asks, and Armie chuckles, because yeah. _The nice one with the curls._

* * *

On Timmy’s birthday, Armie wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing. Groaning, he stretches and fumbles for the phone, wanting it to shut up and let him sleep. Then, he realises what day it is. Suddenly, he’s not so intent on sleeping anymore.

The text is from Nick, stating that he’s outside the building.

Carefully turning around, Armie checks on Timmy. He’s still sleeping, a strand of hair falling into his face. Any other morning, Armie would’ve brushed it away, would’ve let his hands run up and down his sides, waiting for Timmy to stir.

Not today. Today, Armie leaves his hair be as he carefully scoots out of bed. Pulling on his jeans and a hoodie, he keeps an eye on Timmy. He wakes up so easily, and Armie doesn’t know if that’s because he’s constantly ready to make sure that Armie is okay, or if he’s just always been a light sleeper.

Exiting the building, Armie spots Nick immediately.

“Thanks for helping me out,” Armie says, pulling Nick into a one-armed hug.

“No problem man. He’s gonna be absolutely stoked.”

“I hope so,” Armie says, grabbing the bag with Archie’s necessities before he scoops the dog up with the other hand.

“Tell him happy birthday from me, yeah?” Nick grins, getting back inside his car.

As Nick drives off, Armie walks back inside the building. He’d contemplated how to do this for a while. How do you give someone a living thing as a present? Wrapping Archie up just seemed unnecessarily impractical and cruel to the poor dog. Stuffing him into a box with a huge bow on seemed even worse.

He’s not going to wrap up Archie.

Silently opening the door to the apartment, Armie prays to the heavens that Archie won’t start making a lot of noise and wake up Timmy too early.

“Good boy,” Armie whispers, as he closes the door and puts down the bag. Kicking off his shoes, he unclasps the leash from Archie’s collar and puts him down. Scratches him behind the ears and says, “welcome home buddy. Think you can find Timmy?”

When Archie’s ears perk up, eyes looking at Armie as if he recognises Timmy’s name, Armie chuckles. “That’s right, let’s find Timmy. Come on.” 

Standing up, Armie heads towards the hallway, looking behind him to check if Archie’s following.

Tentatively following, Archie starts sniffing the floor and Armie’s sure that the dog gets it now.

Pushing the door to Timmy’s bedroom open, Armie waits for Archie to follow. Which he does, because suddenly, it seems as if the dog can’t move fast enough, as Timmy’s tired voice sounds from the bed.

“Armie?” He asks. Then, “what the—” setting off, Archie jumps up into the bed, yapping andnuzzling Timmy in the face, tail wagging excitedly.

“Good morning,” Armie says, closing the door behind him.

Pushing up into the bed, Timmy looks utterly confused. “What is Archie doing here? _Hey buddy-_ seriously Armie, what’s going on?” He asks, trying to keep Archie out of his face.

Taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, Armie clutches his hands together. He really counted on Timmy being happy.

“It’s… I know that you don’t like your birthday. And I totally get that, it’s not— this is not about me telling you what to do or… feel. It’s just. I thought that maybe. Maybe it’s time to start remembering this day for something nice too? And I know that— that somehow, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re not enough but… but to me, you’re more than enough. To both me and Archie, actually.”

When Timmy doesn’t say anything, Armie starts biting his thumb. When Timmy just stares at him, his chest falling and rising, eye glossy, Armie starts to doubt this whole thing.

“You… you gave me Archie?” Timmy asks, his voice small.

Armie nods. “Uhuh. I should’ve probably asked you first, I know that but—”

“Shut up,” Timmy says, cutting him off.

“What?”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Timmy breathes, and Armie does. Frames Timmy’s face in his palms and kisses him deep and hard, Timmy absorbing everything.

“I can’t believe you,” Timmy chuckles as he leans his forehead against Armie’s.

“Is that… is that a bad thing?” Armie asks.

“Jesus baby, you’re such an idiot sometimes. This is all I could ever want. I don’t know how to thank you, it’s… thank you. I love you,” Timmy says, scooting forward to put his arms around Armie.

“I love you too,” Armie mumbles. It feels terribly inadequate.

When Archie squeezes in between their bodies, Timmy sniffles and laughs. “We love you too, Arch,” he says, nuzzling his face into Archie soft fur.

When Armie looks at Timmy, he doesn’t regret a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are what keeps me going ❤️  
> Feel free to talk to me on Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	21. Author stopping by

Hello!

I know that I literally just raised the chapter count to two more chapters, so I’m really sorry about this but ITABM(TY) will not be updated again anytime soon.

It demands a bit much of my own emotional energy to write it the way I want, and every time I sit down and look at the words I feel stuck. Personally, I think it sucks because holy shit guys, this has been amazing. You have been the absolute best and I can’t thank you enough for your support and encouragement.

BUT. For various reasons, I’m just not going to be able to finish it the way I wanted to.

I’ve had the last chapters planned out for a while and if anyone wants to know how it’s supposed to end, then I’m more than willing to post my notes. If for some reason, I feel like writing the end for real one day, then I’m going to do that, I just can’t promise that it’ll happen.

I won’t stop writing. There’ll be more, lots of it because writing is still my happy place but it’ll more likely be e/o or, who knows, a whole other pairing.

Fandom I supposed to be fun. Fiction is supposed to be an escape. If you feel like you need a break, then go ahead and take it. Fic is still going to be here when you feel ready again.

If you want to talk about anything fic related, then you’re more than welcome to come to talk to me on Tumblr (I’m always hanging around over there anyway).

Remember, take care of yourself and do something that you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


	22. Whatever our souls are made of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smiling to himself, Armie traces the words with the tip of his finger. He can hear Timmy laughing from the kitchen and when Armie presses the note to his chest, he knows they’re going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys. I did it. I wrote the thing anyway because goddammit I hate unfinished projects. Now, excuse me while I go cry in a corner because I miss these guys already. 
> 
> Oh, and by the way, this goes out to all of you. I would never have pulled through without you guys. You're the best support system I could've ever asked for.

In January, Armie quits football. Not because he doesn’t like it- he does. What he doesn’t like, is all the things they represent.

Being closeted.

His father.

Who he used to, who he was supposed to be.

he thought he didn’t have a choice but becoming.

He quits football because it’s January, which means a new year. Quits, because he’s realised that there are ways -ways he never thought of as anything but dreams- but now, now they’ve turned into opportunities.

He knows that New Year resolutions are kind of lame, that they tend to fail within a week. He almost feels a little ashamed of actually having one.

But the thing is- this isn’t a need for change that has suddenly appeared. It’s been long underway, and Armie can’t help but feel like he owes himself this one. That he owes younger Armie another life, a better life. One he decides for himself, one that no one but him dictates.

When he tells Timmy about wanting to quit football, he feels his stomach tightening in nervous knots. Not because Timmy has ever disapproved of Armie wanting to go his own ways. But because Armie is so used to people telling him no, making decisions for him, that it feels like teetering on the edge of something unknown to do this. To say it out loud.

Timmy looks surprised but not dismissive.

“Will it make you happier?”

“Well… yeah. I think so,” Armie answers. Swallows and presses the palms of his hands together. They feel clammy.

“Then it can’t be lame.”

Then, Timmy had kissed Armie on the cheek and smiled reassuringly.

“You seem surprised,” Armie says, letting his shoulders sag in relief.

“I’ve suspected it for a while. I just didn’t think you’d actually go with it. I’m proud of you.”

Armie looks at Timmy for a while.

_Of course, he knew. He always just knows._

Rolling onto his stomach so that he’s got his side pressed up against Timmy’s on the bed, Armie leans in. Kisses Timmy on the cheek right next to his ear and whispers, “I love you. Always.”

Timmy leans his head on Armie’s shoulder and sighs in content.

_Whatever the future’s got in store for us, you’re going to be my number one._

“Timmy…”

“Yeah?”

“I mean it, you know. Always. I can’t promise that… I can’t promise that I won’t fuck up along the way, that I won’t make stupid decisions that’ll probably make you mad at me. I can’t promise that I won’t accidentally hurt you. But I promise… I promise that I’ll always try my best. I’ll always be here, even if you won’t need or— or if you don’t want me anymore. You’ll never stop being the most important person to me.”

Timmy nuzzles into the crook of Armie’s neck for a minute before answering.

“I know. I trust you. Let’s promise each other to never stop trying.”

“I promise to never stop trying,” Armie breathes, nuzzling into Timmy’s hair, his heart squeezing.

“Me too. I promise.”

* * *

Admittedly, Armie feels like throwing up when he tells the coach that he quits. For a moment, he fears that he’s about to ruin his future. That this really is his only way forward after high school, that no college will ever consider him without this.

The coach doesn’t take it as lightly as Timmy had, but he understands. Claps Armie on the shoulder, and Armie’s got a feeling that this is what the coach had meant that day in the principal's office— that this is the help that coach could give him.

Armie feels relieved and grateful when he’s officially off the team. Nick’s excitement is through the roof when he takes Armie’s spot as captain and just like that, the last bit of guilt is gone.

There’s a spot for him on the drama team and at first, he feared that Mr Guadagnino’s only reason to let him in was a pity. That Timmy had convinced him to let Armie in. It doesn’t take more than half a lesson for Armie to realise that he under no circumstance is getting any special treatment.

It’s a relief. A reassurance that maybe he’s got here because he’s just _good enough._

It’s _good._ Things are falling into place and Armie feels steady. As if it no longer takes a simple puff of air to make him topple over.

* * *

In February, Armie asks Timmy to be his prom date.

On one side, Armie figures that it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Timmy. On the other side, he understands why it does.

Maybe it’s because of the way he does it. But Armie feels bad for the way things kicked off for them— he feels bad for initially not being ready to be open to the world about his feeling for Timmy. Feels bad for having hidden them away, for never having treated Timmy the way he wanted to, the way he deserves.

So, Armie buys chocolates. The dark kind with orange-flavoured crunch because that’s Timmy’s favourite, and Armie feels a satisfied pride in his chest by knowing this.

He buys chocolates and stuffs them in his backpack. Brings them to school and waits for the lunch break, where he walks up to the table where Timmy is seated, an odd mix of their friends taking up the rest of the seats. Instead of just taking a seat, Armie taps Timmy on the shoulder.

“What?” Timmy asks offhandedly, turning to look up at Armie.

Armie clears his throat. Can feel his blush take over his whole face, his heart picking up its pace when the talk around the table quiets down.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Wha— no? Armie, what are you—” Timmy looks confused. A little amused, but mostly puzzled.

Sitting down, Armie opens his backpack. Pulls up the box of chocolates and hands them to Timmy. “Would you— will you be my date? To prom, I mean.”

Armie almost regrets making it such a big deal when Timmy just gapes at him. He could’ve done this tonight, in bed, when the lights were off and none of their friends would be there to witness the whole thing.

“I—” looking around the table, Timmy closes his mouth. Armie doesn’t look at their friends, doesn’t want to see anyone but Timmy. “I would love to,” Timmy answers, a small smile playing at his mouth.

“Yeah? That’s… that’s good,” Armie says, feeling his own mouth curling into a smile.

“Are you going to pick me up too?” Timmy asks and Armie really, really appreciates Timmy playing along.

“Yeah, of course.”

Armie doesn’t kiss Timmy before he walks away- not because he doesn’t want the rest of the table to see, but because this is their first date. He wants to do it the right way.

When Ashton's whistles after him and the rest of the table breaks into catcalls and cheering, Armie bends his head down and secretly does a happy dance on the inside.

* * *

Armie does pick Timmy up. Granted, he only needs to make his way from his own room, down the hallway to Timmy’s door, but it’s the principle.

When Armie knocks on Timmy’s door, he might as well have been standing on the doorstep of Timmy’s parent’s house, based on the way his stomach is churning, nerves making his hand shake. He’s got no idea why he’s suddenly feeling this nervous. It’s literally just Timmy— his boyfriend who he’s been living with for months. His boyfriend, who knows him better than Armie knows himself. Armie’s got no secrets that Timmy doesn’t know about, they’ve seen each other at their weakest points and yet, Armie is nervous.

It might have something to do with the whole school, and in some sense, the whole world being about to see how much Timmy really means to Armie.

When Timmy opens the door, Armie feels like all of his senses are suddenly being overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what to say— just knows that his mouth is going dry and _holy shit,_ Timmy looks out of this world breathtaking.

“Is it too much?” Timmy asks, self-consciously as he pulls at the loose fabric of his… suit.

“You’re… you’re pink,” Armie manages. “I mean. You look like a flower. It’s… It’s fitting.” Armie isn’t sure how good he’s doing at complimenting Timmy right now. It’s unfair, really, because his brain seems to have powered off. Timmy really is pink- his whole suit a deep magenta that makes Armie think of roses and summer and warmth. His shirt is gaping, showing off the white, smooth skin of Timmy’s chest. Around his neck is a silver necklace that makes Armie want to mark Timmy up. To lick his throat and growl a possessive _mine._

Armie shakes his head, tries to regain some sanity.

“Uh. Thanks?”

Judging by the blush colouring Timmy’s cheeks, he isn’t mad at Armie but most definitely not convinced that Armie really, _really_ likes the outfit.

“You look like a dream, baby,” Armie says, pulling Timmy close. “You’re stunning. Beautiful, and honestly, I’m a little annoyed that it’ll be hours before I can really appreciate it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you crazy? Everyone’s going to be _so jealous._ ” Bending down, Armie kisses Timmy square on the mouth before he pulls back and takes his hand. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Timmy says, squeezing Armie’s hand.

What Armie doesn’t count on, is Michelle waiting for them in the living room. He doesn’t count on her insisting on taking pictures of them, and honestly, it’s a bit awkward at first. As if Michelle isn’t sure how to get into parent-mode and Armie and Timmy aren’t used to having grown-ups insisting on taking on that role for them. But it’s nice, and after a couple of minutes, it’s as if they all ease into it. Michelle looks proud, Timmy blushes and Armie beams.

When Michelle discreetly wipes at her face, they both give her the easy way out and act as if they don’t see.

Armie holds Timmy’s hand in a tight grip the whole way inside the school. Laces their fingers together and hopes that Timmy won’t feel how sweaty they are. He doesn’t know what he expects— doesn’t know what it is he fears exactly. But when Ashton and Tyler turn up out of nowhere and act as if nothing is out of the ordinary, Armie feels a weight being lifted off his chest.

They spot Nick and Henry standing in a corner, faces close and hands reaching out in a way that is way too intimate to be platonic. Armie feels a little more courageous, so he rests his arm around Timmy’s shoulder and pulls him closer to his side.

He ends up spending half the night feeling on edge as if he’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to get up in his face and tell him how nasty he is— how he doesn’t deserve Timmy.

It never happens. It’s not like people don’t look, or notice. They do— but just as quickly as they notice Timmy’s hand in Armie’s they look away again. As if it’s no big deal.

_Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it only ever mattered to me._

From then on, Armie stops worrying. Stops looking around stops waiting for shit to go down. Instead, he relents almost immediately when Timmy wants to dance. He drags his big, clumsy body out in the middle of the dance floor and places his hands on Timmy’s hips. Holds him close and kisses him on the forehead. Whispers in his ear for the millionth time, “you look beautiful.”

It’s a good night— way better than Armie had let himself hope for. He kisses Timmy on the mouth right where everyone can see them and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care, because Timmy found him, and Timmy wants to stay. Wants Armie despite all his flaws, all of his baggage and monsters.

* * *

The next day, Timmy wakes up with a bad cold. Not just a stuffy nose, no. He’s burning hot, his eyes are puffy and he’s needy in a way Armie doesn’t recognise as usual Timmy-behaviour.

Armie isn’t surprised. Timmy had insisted last night that he didn’t need a jacket, that it would just ruin his outfit. When Timmy manages to sneeze three times before he’s even properly awake, Armie _almost_ says, “I told you so.” Almost, because Timmy did really look beautiful last night, and Armie’s belated wisdom won’t make Timmy feel better.

Instead, he stuffs the sheets tightly around Timmy’s body, making him look like a very cute, very sick, caterpillar.

Armie spends the whole Saturday taking care of Timmy. He brings him orange juice and toast for breakfast, changes the orange juice to water when Timmy takes a sip and makes a face. “It scratches my throat,” he whines, his eyes only half-way open.

When Timmy wakes up from his post-breakfast nap and starts whining and squirming around, Armie helps him into the bathroom. Gets the shower started as Timmy sits on the closed toilet lid, because, “Armie, I feel dizzy.”

When Timmy is finished with his shower, Armie has changed the sheets to fresh crumb-free ones.

When Timmy’s teeth start clattering and shivers rake through his body, Armie gets him heat-pads and curls his own body around Timmy’s burning one. Kisses him at the nape of his neck and holds his hand. Timmy naps for the second time.

The next time Timmy wakes up, it’s because he’s coughing. When the coughs start dying down, he sniffles and wipes at his face. “What’s wrong baby? Does it hurt?” Armie asks, pushing up to look at Timmy.

“My throat,” Timmy croaks. He’s awfully pale and Armie already hates not being able to instantly make Timmy better.

“Do you want tea?”

“Please,” Timmy sniffles, burrowing further into the sheets. Armie might have to change them again later.

Armie makes them both a cup of tea. Comes back to the bed and scratches Timmy’s hair, taking in the way Timmy closes his eyes and appears to be in complete bliss.

“I feel gross,” Timmy mumbles.

“You’re not.”

“Only you would say that,” Timmy answers, cracking an eye open to look up at Armie.

“So? Trying to impress anyone else, Chalamet?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Timmy groans, rolling over to press his face into Armie’s thigh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Of course I am.”

_I don’t want to be anywhere else._

“Will you read to me?” Timmy mumbles, face still pressed into Armie’s thigh.

_Anything baby._

Armie ends up picking up a book he hasn’t heard of before. It’s about a boy— a boy about their age, who falls deeply in love with an older guy who visits his family during the summer. Armie finds himself completely absorbed by the story, telling himself all the way through that there’s no way the characters won’t end up together. No author would be cruel enough to not give them a happy ending, Armie is sure of it.

That might be the reason why he ends up croaking out the last words, his voice strangled and tight. “ _Look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name._ ”

It’s a good thing that Timmy’s so big on naps today because by the time Armie’s sobs have died down, he feels exhausted. It’s ridiculous, really, but every time he thinks about what he just read, the tears start welling up again.

Archie doesn’t seem to mind either. That, or he can feel that Timmy needs extra comfort today. Armie ends up giving up on taking the dog for a real walk that day because Archie simply doesn’t _want to._

When the sky gets dark and the day comes to an end, Timmy has fallen asleep on top of all the sheets. There’s a blanket rolled around him and Archie’s head is tucked securely beneath his arm as both snore lightly.

Armie succeeds in carefully getting Archie out of the bed before he pulls off Timmy’s socks. He’s burning, and Armie knows that he’s going to end up waking up and be completely delirious and whiny. Then, he tucks Timmy’s sweats off and throws them on the floor. Shushes Timmy when he groans in his sleep and frees him from the pile of blankets. With everything out of the way, Armie summons all of his strength and lifts Timmy off the mattress in order to free the sheets beneath him. It makes Timmy stir and mumbles something Armie doesn’t understand.

When Timmy is tucked in again, Armie kisses him on the forehead once, twice, until Timmy sighs, a smile on his sleeping face. Turning off the lights, Armie gets up to brush his teeth but stops when Timmy groans and mumbles, “Armie?”

“Yeah?” Armie asks from the door.

“‘irsty,” is all he gets in return.

Armie goes to the kitchen and gets Timmy a glass of water before going to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

With the window open and the cold night air streaming into the room, Armie curls around Timmy’s sleeping form. Kisses his shoulder and tells him “I love you,” because they always do that. It’s the first thing they tell each other in the morning and last thing they say at night.

When Armie falls asleep, it’s with Timmy in his arms and the feeling of something heavy and warm lying on top of the sheets in the foot of the bed.

* * *

Months later they have their first fight. Armie can’t remember how it had started. Only that he had been increasingly annoyed by a guy from drama class who keeps flirting with Timmy, for the past couple of weeks. He remembers wanting to scream when Timmy kept answering him in monosyllabic words because he was buried in his phone. His phone, that constantly kept lighting up with a new text. Armie isn’t stupid, he knows who they’re from.

So, alright, maybe Armie knows what had started the fight on his part. But honestly, it’s so fucking frustrating to watch Timmy being flirted with right in front of his face, as if Armie’s suddenly both blind and deaf, like, what the fuck? Who does that? And worse, Timmy is so oblivious that Armie sometimes thinks he’s being ignorant on purpose. That thought always ends up leaving Armie with a mixture of guilt and panic. So yeah, Armie might have exploded just now. He can’t remember what he said, what he did to get here.

He just knows that Timmy is furious, the frustration vivid on his face. He knows that all of the things he ends up spewing, all the words he yells back at Timmy, aren’t true. That he’s taking his insecurities out on Timmy and it’s immature and stupid on so many levels, but Armie can’t keep it in.

It ends with slamming doors. Someone screaming words about the other one being too fragile, someone being an unreasonable asshole. Armie thinks that might count for the both of them.

Inside his room, Armie tries to calm down. Tries to regain control over his laboured breathing, his heart slamming against his chest, making his blood rush through his body.

He tells himself that the hot, prickling sensation in his eyes are just angry tears.

In reality, he’s scared. They’ve never acted like this with each other. Armie doesn’t like it one bit, and honestly, he’s so fucking scared that this is it- that it really is too good to be true.

When Armie hears the sound of scratching on his door, he yanks it open. He expects Archie to jump up into his bed, but instead, the dog stays put. Armie swears he sees Archie tilt his head, ears lying back flat against his head. It’s as if the dog is seeing right through his bullshit.

When Archie wags his tail and runs back to Timmy’s door, expectantly looking back at Armie, Armie sighs deeply and walks up Timmy’s door, opening it.

“Your dog got out,” he grumbles. Timmy’s on his bed, back turned towards Armie.

Armie isn’t really in the mood for talking. Timmy’s probably going to tell him to move out his stuff soon anyway.

His words, however, makes Timmy get up from the bed so fast Armie half expects him to faint from head rush. His eyes are shooting daggers at Armie.

“Don’t you dare give me that bullshit!” Timmy thunders. “It’s _our_ dog, you big, stupid asshole! You don’t get to take the easy way out like this! You don’t get to hurt me just because you’re scared! You don’t get to fuck us both over just because you think it’ll hurt less, because guess what, it doesn’t work like that! So don’t you fucking come in here and talk about _my_ dog, when he’s just as much yours— you don’t get to make that decision on your own!”

Backing up, Armie swallows. Timmy is _angry,_ and the finger he keeps pointing at Armie as he gets closer seems threatening enough in itself.

“ _Ours?_ You’re the one who’s out there, acting as if—”

“As if _what_ , Armie? As if we don’t live together? As if we don’t have a dog together? As if you aren’t the last person I see every night and the first one I see every morning, as if I don’t choose _you, us,_ every fucking day? It’s _you,_ who’s acting as if you’re the one who’s got anything to lose when in reality, it’s me who should be scared! Me who should thank the heavens every god damned time I wake up next to you, you idiot! It’s _me,_ who’d drop everything the minute you ask, it’s _me_ who survives because of _you,_ and if you can’t see that— then you’re more fucking stu—” Armie is pretty sure he’s got the point. Is pretty sure there’s been enough yelling already, and alright, fine, they’re both scared.

So, Armie does what he does best. He cuts Timmy off with a kiss that leaves him desperate. A kiss that ends with Armie pushed up against the wall, Timmy desperately clawing at his shoulders, the back of his head, his chest.

They end up shooing Archie into Armie’s room before they lock Timmy’s door. Lock Timmy’s door, because Armie is hurting and Timmy is the only remedy.

He fucks Timmy hard and dirty on the desk. Kisses him deeply and tells him how much he loves him, how fucking sorry he is. Timmy echoes the words back and when Armie comes deep inside of Timmy, he feels exhausted but calmer.

When they’ve made it to the bed, it’s Timmy who fucks Armie. It’s slow and tender. It heals the rest of the open wound of jealousy and doubt Armie had left.

“I’m trying,” Armie says, looking Timmy in the eye.

“You’re doing good,” Timmy answers. “And I’m sorry. I’ll try better.”

“Always?” Armie asks because he needs to hear Timmy say it again.

“Always,” Timmy promises.

It’s good. They’re good.

* * *

The next morning when Armie wakes up, Timmy isn’t next to him. He can hear voices in the kitchen though, the smell of coffee making its way through the open bedroom door.

On top of Timmy’s pillow, is a small slip of paper.

_He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_ \- _Emily Brontë._

Smiling to himself, Armie traces the words with the tip of his finger. He can hear Timmy laughing from the kitchen and when Armie presses the note to his chest, he knows they’re going to be fine.

Always.

* * *

They graduate in June. Armie knows better than to gets his hopes up, but that doesn’t spare him from the disappointment that blooms when his mother isn’t sitting next to Viktor in the rows on families.

_One family member is better than none._

Michelle is there too, and Armie knows that it’s a small family, but at least it’s family.

That night, they take turns at fucking each other in Timmy’s room. They’re tipsy and happy and Timmy is having a hard time staying quiet. Armie enjoys it too much to really do something about it.

“I can’t fucking wait until we have our own place,” Timmy pants, raking his hands through Armie’s hair.

“Just one more month babe,” Armie grunts. “You think New York is loud enough to drown out your screams when I fuck you on every available surface?”

“Fuck no,” Timmy says, flipping them over to ride Armie. “But I’d like to see it try anyway.”

When Timmy bends down to kiss Armie hard on the mouth as Armie thrust into Timmy, he’s almost certain that he’s the luckiest guy on earth.

Later, when Timmy is on his back, naked and sated, Armie traces the tip of his finger from the crown of Timmy’s head, all the way down at his sternum.

Thinking about the last year of his life makes him feel dizzy. Everything has changed. He’s changed. And yeah, in the beginning, he’d been scared. Had tried to fight everything, including Timmy. Sometimes he wishes that he hadn’t. But then… maybe things needed to happen the way they did. Maybe they wouldn’t be here if Armie had acted differently.

_I’ll never know anyway._

It took a bit more than Timmy to make everything better. But if it hadn’t been for Timmy, nothing would’ve changed at all.

“What are you thinking about?” Timmy whispers, looking at Armie as if he’s the centre of Timmy’s whole universe. It’s scaring and thrilling at the same time.

“Everything,” Armie whispers back, kissing Timmy on the temple.

_I love you. You saved me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [Kiros18](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kiros18)


End file.
